


You're bound but so free

by Seasonal



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A lot of characters make appearances okay I can't list them all, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Multi, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Random minor pairings maybe included, Rarepair, Slow Burn, What am I doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2020-09-28 09:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20423405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seasonal/pseuds/Seasonal
Summary: The numerous and unexpected encounters between Bernadetta von Varley and Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of Faerghus throughout the years. Otherwise known as "Bernadetta will never know peace and blissful solitude ever again". Blue Lion Route, with references to Support Conversations.





	1. Concussed Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> You know how some ships either never get A supports (pours one out for Dorothea/Ingrid) or just flat-out don't exist in the game and you're like "You know, that's fine, all these other ships are still great" and you're ready to go about your life until suddenly you get hit in the face with a possible dynamic and then you're just doomed?
> 
> Yes. This is my tale of woe. My challenge, to see if I can make Dimitri/Bernadetta happen believably. This one's for you, Jen.

"You did not have to accompany me, Your Highness." Dedue meaningfully cast his gaze up towards the sky, studded with stars. _It's late,_ he meant, and Dimitri let a dry chuckle escape as he ran two fingers through his hair and followed his vassal and his large basket of freshly harvested vegetables out of the greenhouse.

"I'm aware, Dedue." Of course he was. But after a rather unfortunate circumstance in which Dedue had scared a female student while tending to the flowers in the afternoon, he had taken to doing most of his work in the greenhouse at times that he was less likely to encounter anyone else. Dimitri had tried, fruitlessly, to argue for a different solution and had finally resigned himself to accompanying him instead.

Dedue grunted softly, acknowledgment. He was headed for the dining hall with a stride so purposeful that even the prince with his long legs had to adjust his pace a tad quicker. This too was something Dimitri needed no verbal explanation for. He knew just as well as the rest of the Blue Lions that their friend and classmate liked to make use of the kitchen, even when it wasn't his turn to cook. This was just his way of helping to keep the stores well-stocked, much in the manner that Petra of the Black Eagles would occasionally make a cheerful appearance with three pheasants slung over her shoulder to offer as ingredients.

At this hour, there wouldn't be any cooks bustling about, or students engrossed in their chatter, making it ideal to quietly leave the vegetables and go. Or so Dimitri assumed, leaning carefully in the doorway to wait for Dedue to return from the kitchen.

His lean hadn't been as balanced as he'd imagined, apparently, because when a high-pitched scream filled the air and was quickly accompanied by several crashes, clatters, and a more muted but no less concerning _thud_\-- the prince had to force a rather awkward stumble to keep from outright falling in his shock.

Instantly, his mind was racing, his hand falling to the sword hilt at his hip. Someone was under attack. He needed to handle the threat, summon the faculty or soldiers on duty, he needed to find Dedue and--

"Your Highness."

Dimitri's grip faltered as Dedue emerged from the kitchen, clearly unharmed and no longer carrying the basket. In its place, however, was a limp girl, looking just as dwarfed in such a large man's arms as the basket had.

This time, no amount of time spent in Dedue's presence would have sufficed to understand this without words, and Dedue himself seemed to recognize this with a sigh. If nothing else, succinct ought to do.

"I startled her. Several pots were dropped. She hit her head. Her breathing is not labored."

"Thank the Goddess for that," Dimitri murmured, continuing to stare down at the unconscious form of Bernadetta von Varley and simultaneously accepting with pinched brows that no... he would not be getting to his studying for that ballista exam tonight.

\- - -

It had been a very succinct conversation and a swifter agreement: from what they both knew about Bernadetta, who had just unknowingly confirmed their suspicions, she was prone to panic and negative imaginings without needing much provocation. If, by chance, she regained consciousness before they reached the infirmary, better to see Dimitri's face than Dedue's. Dedue, in fact, had been the one to reluctantly ask this favor of his prince-- and so Dimitri found himself carefully maneuvering the halls with Bernadetta bundled up snugly in his detached cape. The fabric was dark enough so that she wouldn't immediately harm her eyes upon waking, and it lent a bit of extra cushion for her head; Dimitri had never been accused of having a particularly soft and comfortable... well, anything.

If he was truly fortunate tonight, if the Goddess was feeling particularly merciful, he could simply leave Bernadetta in the infirmary with her being none the wiser. Manuela was the Black Eagles' professor, so she'd at least be waking up to a familiar face, and thus be a little more likely to listen to an explanation, of which he'd happily provide to the professor, and--

All too belatedly, Dimitri realized that the trouble with wrapping a tiny girl in his cape and taking care to shield her face was that he couldn't tell precisely when she started to stir. Nor did he consider how well she would (not) take it.

Only years of honing his reflexes and the strength of his own bloodline kept Bernadetta from bucking her way out of his hold to bodily embrace the floor. Dimitri hadn't _quite_ anticipated the sudden strong surge of the bundle he held, but as she regained the ability to speak, bewilderment turned very rapidly into concern.

Bernadetta von Varley was a joking rumor among most of the students, lighthearted jests told in the tone of the most chilling of ghost stories about a girl who never left her room and if you were to run into her outside of it, you were damned to become the next in her line of cursed dolls. To those who didn't believe such absurd claims, she was merely an odd girl with a tendency to overreact... though given the occasions that he _had_ seen her, slung over Caspar's back and wailing as he took off at a dead run, or fleeing from the slow and purposeful approach of Edelgard's retainer, Dimitri was sure her time with the Black Eagles hadn't been particularly kind.

Those times, her yelps and shrieks of protest had been almost comical, though he'd felt slightly guilty for thinking that. Now, however, Bernadetta was struggling for dear life in his grip, and her cries held a note of what he _knew_ to be terror.

"No, no, no, _no_, not again, _please_ not again, I-I'll be good, don't l-leave me in here, don't send me away--!! I'm _sorry!!_"

Dimitri froze for all of two seconds, though it felt much longer as those words seeped in slowly, like acknowledging the sweat cooling on his face when he'd flung himself free of another nightmare. This really wasn't a matter he ought to attend to. Bernadetta was not a member of his House, nor a citizen of the Kingdom. She was a fellow student, yes, but he had no right to pry into her affairs. He shouldn't even be _wondering._

He reminded himself of that, sternly, as he dodged a captured arm or elbow or whatever she was trying to swing upwards (frantically enough that he heard part of the fabric tear), and used one hand to tug the cape away so she could see. As he did, he spoke quickly and quietly.

"You have my utmost apologies for startling you, Bernadetta, but you hit your head rather... resoundingly, when Dedue came upon you. Please, for your own sake, don't move about so haphazardly until we reach the infirmary. I'm only here to help you."

Dimitri held no real hope that he'd be able to reassure her so easily and indeed, when Bernadetta's pale and tear-streaked face came into view, she stared at him as though he was merely an apparition and she was debating her sanity-- a feeling that had festered within him for some time, flaring up every now and then; familiar, not welcome. 

He had silently counted to twenty before she spoke, if that shivering hoarse whisper that slipped out of her constituted as speaking. "Y-you're... Prince Dimitri..."

"That I am." Perhaps a gesture of humor and goodwill would allay her fears; he could hope, and so smiled down at her. Goddess, but Bernadetta was _tiny._ Annette was too, of course, but Annette was also so full of vigor that her stature was a mere afterthought. "If you know that much, clearly I need not fear for memory loss."

"Prince Dimitri," Bernadetta repeated, wincing as she brought one hand up to the back of her head. "Oh." Then, faster, more panicked, "_Oh._ Oh, no no no-- _now_ you've done it, Bernie, you've angered royalty and now he's carrying you to your own execution, why did I even try to sneak out for a snack?! Only terrible things happen when I leave my room!"

To that, Dimitri raised an eyebrow, even as he kept a close eye on her when she gingerly touched her head again. He'd considered putting her down, but she was still clearly disoriented and definitely in pain. She'd have to endure, just a bit longer. "Is being carried in my arms really such a distressing fate? I suppose I can't help if I'm abhorrent to you, but we'll be at the infirmary soon, where no executions will await you."

Bernadetta released a miserable groan, stammering something like a denial of some sort (along with what sounded like a plea to the Goddess for mercy), but she was no longer trying to wriggle her way out of his hold, so Dimitri took it as a victory. The infirmary had finally come into view, the brass plate on the door illuminated by the flaming sconces on the walls. His role was nearly done here, and Dimitri could only pray that Manuela was within as he shifted Bernadetta long enough to bring his fist to the door in a decisive knock.

"_Goddess_, Kristoph! If it takes you _this_ long to drag yourself here, I can't foresee a very promising ni-- oh."

To Dimitri's relief, Manuela _was_ present in the infirmary.

To Dimitri's subsequent dismay, also present behind her were two glasses shimmering with burgundy wine, barely flickering white candles all around the room, and a feeling of encroaching dread that indisputably weighed more than the girl in his arms.

"... I wasn't expecting company quite this late." Manuela recovered admirably, eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of Faerghus' crown prince standing there with one of her House's students ensconced in his cape and held securely to his chest. "And an unusual pair, at that. Since only _one_ of us apparently gets to bask in a young man's embrace, I suppose I'll take this as a sign and just have the both of you come in and explain to me what you're doing at this hour."

"I could die now," Bernadetta suggested helpfully. Hopefully, even, if he had to lend an emotion to the tremulous manner in which she spoke.

"No one is dying," Dimitri objected, inwardly wincing as he felt her cringe. Had that been too forceful of a statement? Had he squeezed her too hard, instinctively reacting to the sudden clamors of the dead that plagued him and him alone? "That is-- Professor, if you have a moment, I'd be happy to explain."

"_I'm_ Kristoph," came a surly voice from behind them. This time, Dimitri's hold _did_ tighten as Bernadetta squeaked and he took two steps forward into the infirmary in the event that he had to swiftly hand her off to Manuela first and face this unknown--

Oh. Manuela's... _companion._

"You had your chance, Kristoph," the woman in such apparently high demand snapped with asperity, ushering Dimitri further inside. "And my students take priority."

Watching her slam the door shut with such force that he felt the air flee the room, Dimitri was once again reminded of how all women deserved respect and a healthy amount of caution. It was a fact he had always known, having grown up alongside Ingrid, but there were times where he received very strong reminders. Like now.

At the very least, Manuela's ire was not focused on him. She swept past the wine glasses (though not without a longing glance) and gestured to one of the neatly-made beds. Dimitri was quick to set Bernadetta down after he'd unwrapped her, gathering his cape into his arms and clearing his throat.

Before he could launch into an explanation, Manuela was already leaning in to examine Bernadetta for herself, a pensive frown tugging at her lips. "You're pale," she murmured. "And your eyes are out of focus. A fall...?"

"Dedue and I caught her by surprise in the dining hall," Dimitri hurried to say, in no way willing to implicate only his friend in this encounter. He would take full responsibility, as well. "She struck her head upon the counter when she fell. I was worried she might have a concussion, so I brought her here. Professor, I--"

Manuela held up a hand to cut him off, a decisive flourish that he recognized from the occasions where she was the one to conduct choir practice in the Cathedral. "I'm not angry, Dimitri. You did the right thing." She rested a hand on Bernadetta's shoulder. "If she _does_ have a concussion, I believe it's only minor... but I'd like to keep her here for the night to observe her, just in case. As for you, young man, you'll make many a young lady tragically sad if you don't get yourself to bed quickly. Wrinkles can strike at any age, at _any_ time, for those who don't get enough rest."

"I'll risk a wrinkle or three for a fellow student," Dimitri responded immediately, allowing himself a faint chuckle. "But thank you again, Professor. I'll take my leave. Bernadetta--" He dipped into a short bow. "Again, I'm sorry for all that we've put you through tonight. May the Goddess bless you with a swift recovery."

As he turned to go, a soft voice, steadier than before, stopped him in his stride.

"W-wait."

Dimitri turned back, surprised to see Bernadetta (still looking overwhelmed, of course) holding out her hand. When he blinked, she continued. "Your... your cape. I ripped it, so... p-please let me do something about that."

"I could hardly ask you to--"

"Might as well leave it to her," Manuela interrupted, grinning knowingly. "Why, I couldn't even _begin_ to tell you all of the times Bernadetta has fixed many a torn stocking or a dress hem for me, all because of-- _well_. Stories better sung to a different audience!"

Deciding that yes, she was absolutely correct, he did _not_ wish to know, and unwilling to argue the point in the event that he upset Bernadetta again, Dimitri heaved a sigh of rueful defeat and bundled his cape up to hand back to her. And, politely excusing himself, he strode out of the infirmary, intent on finding Dedue, assuring him that the situation was well in hand, and seeing how much study time he could cram in before sleep.

Two days later, Ferdinand von Aegir presented him with his neatly-folded cape, mended so well that Dimitri couldn't even trace where the fabric had been torn when he held it up to look it over.

"Bernadetta sends her regards," Ferdinand reported dutifully. "And... she has asked me to relay to you that she does not find you... abhorrent? I believe that it would be best for me not to ask for additional clarification."

"I believe that's wise," Dimitri agreed, his small smile hidden as he twisted to reattach his cape.


	2. Sketch Shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernadetta comes across a rare opportunity. As expected, things don't go as she'd hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your support and your comments! It's a huge motivator for me, so without further ado, let the slowburn slowly... burn...
> 
> Mentions of Bernadetta's supports with Byleth, Felix, Petra, Hubert, and Dorothea within. You can safely assume it's probably been about a week or two since the first chapter.

Very few things could lure Bernadetta from the beguiling beckoning of her room-- _lure_, specifically. Because more than a few things could _drag_ Bernadetta out of there (Caspar, Ferdinand) and one certain thing could promise a fate worse than death if she didn't venture out upon the first dour demand (Hubert).

But aside from necessity (food, class, tasks, checking on the pitcher plants to smile adoringly at them), there was a much rarer reason that could get her to pause in her originally singleminded trek back to her room after her lesson. And that reason... was Operatic Ophelia.

The name had been coined by Dorothea when they'd first seen the calico cat sunning herself on one of the crates near the fishing dock and she had greeted them with a noise that was more trill than meow. She'd proven herself to be incredibly vocal ever since, with a penchant for wandering the monastery, leaping onto a pew during choir practice, and-- well, Professor Seteth had called it "disgraceful yelling", but everyone else had been endeared and considered it a fortunate sign when she made an appearance.

Ophelia was now blissfully curled atop one of the benches in front of the dorms, apparently asleep with one twitching black-tipped ear. Having always loved the splotches of color on her coat but always missing an opportunity with the cat in motion, Bernadetta couldn't let such a chance slide.

... Once she'd glanced over both shoulders for possible silent starers and canted her head to make sure that the faint bits of conversation filtering back to her were distant enough that she could make use of this time.

It... should be fine. Her room was reachable in a mere sixteen steps, eight if she had to sprint.

Bernadetta nodded to herself, decisively, and reached into her satchel to retrieve her sketchbook. She crouched in front of the bench, opening the book to a blank page and breathed as unobtrusively as she could as her eyes flew from the slumbering form of the cat back to the page and up again. The shape slowly took form beneath the pencil: the white-tipped paw, just barely peeking out, patches of black, a soft orange spread across the back that she marked with lighter shading for now. If she could get the colors just right, it might make for a good embroidery project too. Maybe for Dorothea, for her support and her unwavering promise to snap her father's arm in half if he tried to lay a finger on her commoner self. But she'd need to get the proper positioning of the spots on the fur and-- 

"Bernadetta? Are you ill??"

The sudden hand, fingers tightly gripping her shoulder, felt as heavy as the weight of disapproval she was far too familiar with. She'd seen that weight for herself, five dark marks against her shoulder in the mirror, and she'd made it a bit of a desperate game to pass the time. "Which Will Fade First", bruises or the reddened rope marks etched into her arms, her stomach, her ankles.

The bruises always won, or so Bernadetta remembered. There was no one else who would have been able to see them and offer a final judgment, after all. Father always took great care to show his disappointment in ways known only to the one who had let him down, time and time again.

But he couldn't be here. He _wouldn't_ be here, she wasn't worth the effort. And just as Bernadetta repeated that silently for the sixth time, the owner of the hand spoke again-- or maybe they _had_ been speaking and she'd been too paralyzed by that _weight_ to listen.

"Bernadetta," said the voice, low and... troubled-sounding? Oh, wonderful. She'd already made someone upset without realizing, and with an apology bubbling up, Bernadetta slowly turned her head to glance behind her shoulder.

The apology fluttered off to die in a peaceful, empty field of flowers when she met the intense blue gaze of Faerghus' heir. Instead, the sketchbook fell from her numb fingers, and what emerged from her mouth sounded like the last feeble chirp of a dying bird.

"Pardon me for being presumptuous," Dimitri said politely, clearly oblivious to the disbelieving and horrified stare Bernadetta was giving him and the practice lance he was clutching, or just too used to being _incredibly intimidating_ that he could easily ignore such a thing. "I saw you hunched over here and I thought you might be-- ah, but I see. Are you fond of cats?"

Cats... cats... why would he suddenly ask about cats, of all things? Was that simply to disarm her before striking her down for her unintentional insolence? The only cat that came to mind was--

Bernadetta's heart did not sink, so much as it flung itself off a cliff to plummet to the rocks below. When she quickly glanced back, Ophelia was not only now wide awake, she was leaping majestically from the bench and gone from sight within seconds. This left Bernadetta in the peculiar predicament of staring at an unoccupied bench, Dimitri standing behind her with a weapon, and her not actually sure if she was shocked, aggravated, or terrified out of her mind.

It wasn't necessarily his-- _no_, she reminded herself flatly, it wasn't his fault at all. She should have been more on her guard. She should have sketched faster. Now Ophelia was gone and Dimitri was still frowning when she chanced a glance over her shoulder once more. Then, his eyes dipped lower, curiously.

"Did you drop something? Here, allow me. It's the least I could do after frightening your friend--"

He bent closer, his hand extended, the lance swinging just a bit with the movement, the tip catching the light of the lowering sun.

Bernadetta's mind went blank.

Looking back on it, she couldn't have described exactly what had happened. Every instinct in her body had _screamed_ (and so had Bernadetta, probably). She must have shot to her feet, because now she was behind the prince and a red, stinging welt adorned the back of her right hand. The lance was no longer in Dimitri's grip; the prince himself was staring at her, bewildered. Inanely, that made her feel worse.

"I," she began, any actual words refusing to emerge other than the one. "I--"

"Disarming the boar, too? Now I _really_ have to learn that technique."

In a panic, Bernadetta jerked her head in the direction of _that_ unmistakable voice. Sure enough, Felix was making his way over to them, eyes gleaming with intent. In all truth, she had no idea what manner of technique he was referring to, not after he'd mentioned it the first time, but Bernadetta knew exactly two things about Felix.

One: he was terrifying at all hours of the day, like a more straightforward sword-happy Hubert. Two: whenever he mentioned training, techniques, or swords, it wasn't going to end well for anyone. Especially her. 

Much to her surprise, just as Felix came within grabbing distance (_or stabbing_, her mind supplied), Dimitri stepped between them, his now lance-less arm extended out to the side.

"Peace, Felix. You're frightening her."

Felix scoffed, a harshly derisive noise that made Bernadetta desperately eye the door to her room. Sixteen steps-- or was it eight? With the way her heart was pounding, maybe she could make it in five. 

"_I'm_ frightening her? I wasn't the one looming over her with a weapon. What, was your true nature a little too strong for you today? Or were you _hoping_ you'd get one of your sick thrills from scaring her? Typical beast."

As an archer - and as someone who needed to locate at least two escape routes at any given second - the otherwise subtle stiffening of Dimitri's shoulders didn't escape Bernadetta's notice. "That's not--"

_What are you doing?!_ her mind shrieked, aghast. _They're not looking at you! RUN, Bernie!!_

She did-- blindly, stumbling only once, but she'd estimated correctly. It took five steps and a leap to grasp the doorknob, fling the door open, and duck inside of her room. Her hands shook as she engaged the lock, her legs quick to follow, until Bernadetta let herself sink down onto the rug in the middle of the room. Her sweaty palm pressed against her heart and she remained slumped there for an indeterminable amount of time, remembering how to breathe. Remembering what it felt like to be _safe._

... And, eventually, remembering that Bernadetta was safely back in her room, but her sketchbook was not.

She was far too rattled to venture outside after all that had happened until the sun had dipped below the horizon and she could no longer hear anyone outside of her room. But by then, it was too late; as diligently as she searched the area in front of the dorms, aided by a single candle, her sketchbook was nowhere to be found and Bernadetta von Varley had just guaranteed herself an entirely sleepless night of worrying for its fate.

\---

"How could you think I wouldn't notice that something was troubling you?" Dorothea's smile was soft, albeit concerned, as she plopped her elbows on the desk where Bernadetta's head was currently resting. "You didn't even flinch when Lin slid one of those massive tomes about Saint Indech under your cheek to prop you up! And, much as I'd love to say it's because you're finally catching some confidence, I'd say it's a little more likely that you're just exhausted. So-- spill the beans, Bern. What happened?" 

Petra came into view next, glancing between the pair of them with her familiar puzzled frown. "I am not so certain that Bernie should be spilling anything, especially now. Picking up beans when she is feeling the-- ah, feeling _ill_ does not seem to me like a good idea."

Dorothea did her fond little laugh, the one that usually soothed Bernadetta's frayed nerves in an instant because even _she_ could remember what genuine kindness sounded like. "It just means our little Bern here is holding a lot inside of her again, when she shouldn't have to. You know what happens to contents under constant pressure."

"They explode," Petra stated brightly.

Bernadetta's long-suffering sigh was mostly muffled into the wood. There was no helping it, she knew. Not with these two, and with a small grunt of effort, she hauled her head up. "If I," she began haltingly, "um, _lost_ something pretty important-- and it might have been stolen, but-- I mean, it might not have! But maybe it was! Probably--"

It was Dorothea's turn to look perplexed now, but Petra began to rapidly drum her fingers on the edge of the desk. "The Lions, yes?"

"You saw it?" Bernadetta breathed, hope swelling in her throat-- only to vanish just as Petra smiled apologetically.

"I saw _you_. As I have said, you are like prey, quick to flee and very swift. When you ran yesterday, I thought-- Prince Dimitri and Felix had given you a threat. Perhaps... hunted you? As a proud warrior of Brigid, I wanted to vengeance--"

"Avenge?" Dorothea suggested, lips pressed together, though that did nothing to disguise her smile. Petra nodded, firmly.

"I could not let them hurt my friend. I demanded honorable combat."

It was somehow not all that difficult to imagine Petra angrily facing down two boys from a rival House, demanding that they fight her. Really, it was only slightly less likely than Caspar doing it instead. But doing it for Bernadetta's sake...

"You really didn't have to do that," she murmured, probably the right thing to say, for all that gratitude was warm in her chest.

Petra shrugged. "The professor came before the vengeance. They apologized. Then they left... and so I too, apologize... I did not see anything, Bernie."

Dorothea clapped her hands together. "As sad as I am that I missed the opportunity to witness that and make that a song... doesn't that narrow it down a bit? I saw Dimitri at the dock this morning with Professor Byleth, but surely by now, they've gone their separate ways! Petra and I will hunt down Felix and see if he grabbed anything of yours-- and that professor's always asking people if they've dropped something, so maybe check there first. Does that sound good?"

It sounded like more socialization than Bernadetta was ready for, actually, but... Byleth had always been calming and quiet. Approachable. A professor she could talk to, besides her own.

"Thank you," Bernadetta whispered, gaze lowering to the ground-- only to jump lightly when Dorothea rested a hand on top of hers and Petra dropped her hand on her head.

"This is just friendship, Bern! You don't have to thank us!"

"Yes! We will make Felix spill his beans _and_ your things!"

Petra looked so proud that neither Bernadetta nor Dorothea could bring themselves to do anything but smile in return.

\---

In the absence of Petra's confidence and Dorothea's reassurance, as well as the wake of visiting Byleth and learning that the professor had things like joke manuals, a quill that had weakly dripped ink onto the floor, and half-used lipstick but no sketchbook, Bernadetta found her exhaustion and her pessimism returning with an enthusiasm that she certainly didn't share. 

What was she going to do? If Felix had the sketchbook, she had no doubt that the combined forces of her friends would resolve that-- if he hadn't thrown it away or used it for training practice. And if Dimitri had it, what was to stop him from taking it to his classroom and sharing a jolly chortle over her messy scribbles with his many minions? And if neither of them had it, then she was completely out of leads.

Maybe she'd just retire to her room for the rest of the day. Her vision was beginning to get blurry when she didn't blink three times in a row, and she was starting to hear... meows. A sure sign of sanity loss. Yes, meowing, and Dimitri loudly whispering her name, punctuated by the pungent smell of fish--

Wait.

"What?" Bernadetta stopped walking, steps away from the greenhouse. Either she _really_ needed to sleep, or that really _was_ the young prince standing there in some bizarre approximation of a tree, holding six silvery fish in one hand and keeping a familiar-looking book clasped to his chest in the other. And if _that_ wasn't strange enough, he had no less than nine cats loudly yowling at his feet, balancing their front paws on his stiff legs as their tails waved with incredible vigor.

As soon as their eyes met, Dimitri looked incredibly relieved. "_Would one of these be yours?_" Again, the carefully pitched whisper. "_The cat you were drawing the previous evening?_"

Honestly, the sight was so surreal that Bernadetta couldn't even bring herself to feel terror rising up. Instead, curiously, she stepped closer; it didn't take long for her eyes to fall on Ophelia, who was (of course) warbling the loudest.

All it took was a nod, and Dimitri's sigh was significantly louder. He eased himself down in a crouch to lay the fish out on the ground, fingers twitching and hand quickly drawn to his side as though he wanted to avoid touching the excited cats. From the way his eyes softened as he gazed at them, though... maybe it was less out of fear and more out of concern that he'd scare them?

"The fault was mine for startling you both yesterday," he spoke again, cautiously. "And-- well, I lack a gift with animals, so I had to avail upon the professor to assist me in fishing this morning. I thought they might approach more readily with freshly caught, unseasoned fish, though I must admit I was less timely with my catches than I could have hoped. Regardless, for all the trouble I've caused you lately, I wanted to make amends."

Dimitri held out the book to her, which Bernadetta took just as delicately.

"You, um-- you didn't, did you...?" She wasn't sure if she ought to be accusing him of rifling through the pages after the staggering revelation that Faerghus' prince had spent all morning fishing in order to lure in a bunch of cats in the hopes that one of them would be Ophelia. And what was his plan if she _hadn't_ passed this way? Would he have just stood there this whole time?

Dimitri shook his head, blue eyes earnest. "It was open when I picked it up, so I'm afraid I noticed what you were drawing, but I closed it thereafter. I'd meant to return it to you sooner, but after your hasty departure, I thought it might be best not to approach you immediately. Believe it or not, Bernadetta, I don't happen to enjoy causing you terror every time you gaze upon me."

Bernadetta hesitated, then shifted into a crouch not too far away, letting one of the cats rub their back beneath her palm. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "For panicking like that. But... thank you, for not looking through it. And-- all of this."

"I would never look through a friend's belongings without permission," Dimitri replied promptly. "But you are most welcome. This has, undoubtedly, expanded my horizons-- so really, I ought to be thanking _you._"

She would have told him that such a response was unnecessary, when it was her fault mostly, but something else gave her pause. It took her a minute, sifting through what he'd just said, until she found it once more.

"... Friend?"

Again, that direct gaze locked onto her-- and again, Bernadetta couldn't locate her usual fear when he was being surrounded by noisily eating cats, a few even using his knees as a bridge to investigate the fish on the other side of him. "If that wasn't too presumptuous of me... I _would_ like to be your friend, Bernadetta. So that, perhaps, you might one day greet me with a smile."

The very word, accompanied by a strange, swooping feeling that felt like witnessing a baby bird's first flight, was followed in close succession by that now-customary thread of fear. He wasn't a commoner, though. He was a prince. That ought to be safe. But was _she_ safe? What if she agreed and she was hurt in the end? Was this really a good idea?

Dimitri held her gaze, waiting patiently for an answer. And, as the cat choir milled around them and she recalled what she'd once told Hubert, about facing her fears without anyone having to make concessions for her--

Bernadetta offered a faint smile. "Yeah. Um, if you think I'm really worth the trouble, then... sure. I'd... like to be your friend, Your Highness."

His shoulders slumped, incrementally, the relief palpable in his much brighter countenance. "And already you grace me with your smile! But please, call me Dimitri. We are both students here, after all."

"_Thaaaat's_ a little beyond me... right now..."

She didn't feel quite brave enough to finish up her sketch of Ophelia with Dimitri right there (probably watching and politely judging) but as they began a tentative discussion about a certain plant in the greenhouse that cats apparently adored, Bernadetta found that she didn't mind a distraction this time around.


	3. Battles of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernadetta finds herself roped into mission assistance for the month.

The Verdant Rain Moon was not known for being a benevolent month for Bernadetta. While she enjoyed cracking open her windows during that time to add the refreshing scent of falling rain to her room and she wasn't all that troubled by thunder, there was a difference between enjoying that rain in a warm and dry environment, and not...

... In the middle of a skirmish with bandits because a certain professor had casually requested (_insisted_, Bernadetta privately thought) that she join the Blue Lions as mission assistance for the month. Linhardt and Petra had both spent time with the Golden Deer, citing it as good experience, and Caspar had also done a battle or two with the Lions and had deemed it "great and full of justice" with sparkling eyes-- but that was Caspar, who deemed any fight one that he _absolutely_ had to get involved in.

Bernadetta, a little more reticent about haphazardly flinging herself into fights with a bunch of near-strangers, hadn't been anywhere as enthused about being dragged into the situation. But Byleth had claimed that her newly-formed friendship with Faerghus' prince would prove helpful in learning how to fight and work alongside more unfamiliar allies. And even Dorothea hadn't been all that sympathetic to her plight; upon hearing the news from a glum Bernadetta, the songstress had blithely asked her to keep an eye on the eligible males in the House and report back with her findings.

("Except Sylvain," she'd added, grimacing and rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I've got _some_ time before I have to consider being desperate and he's a little too wild for his own good.")

And so the hellish month had commenced. Rather than just one battle, as she'd hoped for (with a healthy amount of skepticism), Bernadetta had accompanied the Blue Lions into several fights. The first had involved being subjected to the lightning-fast swiveling of Felix's head whenever she moved, until Ingrid had slammed an elbow into his back and ordered him to focus on the enemy and not their ally. Felix remained irritably attentive to the fight after that, and Bernadetta thought that, while he was a noble (like Dorothea wanted), getting him to agree to a marriage would probably involve defeating him in an hour-long battle and that wasn't usually her friend's preferred method of courtship.

The second mission had Bernadetta at least a little more familiar with their formation: Dimitri, Felix and Dedue as the front line, Annette and Mercedes following to safely soften up the enemies and provide healing and support for the fighters (Bernadetta couldn't help but be in awe of Annette's fearless friendliness, watching her cheerfully smack her palm against the massive muscular slab of Dedue's back in a show of camaraderie) and either Sylvain or Ingrid - sometimes both - guarding the rear against reinforcements. Byleth's positioning was sporadic, constantly darting from one area of the fight to another. The professor could hold their own without trouble, so no one tended to worry.

Bernadetta found herself usually paired with Ashe (sweet and earnest, but an adopted commoner whose father had betrayed the Church, so she wasn't sure if he'd fit Dorothea's criteria), sticking to the cover of the forest and only popping out to take the occasional shot. It was a position she felt suited her well, although the times that she had to go from behind the tree to _in_ the tree to get a better vantage point weren't as preferable. Like the first time.

Ashe had smiled understandingly when Sylvain (not an option, and she was inclined to agree with her friend's opinion) struggled to disguise his laughter when he had to lift her to the closest branch and the two of them had shared a sympathetic conversation about the woes of short stature while picking off the bandits as they tried to surround the group.

Ambitious of them, she'd had to admit, trying to get past the wall that was Dedue (commoner, and even if he hadn't been, stood a strong chance of ditching Dorothea on his own wedding day if he thought Dimitri needed something).

... And now, here she was again. In a tree. In a downpour, squinting through the gray haze at the dark shapes that fought down below with the occasional cry of bravado. If nothing else, if she _had_ to be out in the rain, at least Sylvain hadn't laughed this time as he'd boosted her up.

\-- He had, instead, made a comment about how if she'd _wanted_ his hands on her, "You could have asked and I would've done this so much sooner" and Bernadetta hadn't even felt bad when Ingrid accurately nailed him in the back of the head with a vulnerary.

Their formation was forced to spread out more this time, with two smaller forest areas (one for each of the archers to claim, with Sylvain and Ingrid remaining near for cover) thinning out into a clearing, where the brunt of the fighting was taking place. From her spot, Bernadetta could make out the faint, colorful sparks of magic (an angry blue-green slice of wind from Annette, a blinding white light from Mercedes), mentally marking their places. Dedue was that hulking shadow in the center of the field, drawing most of the bandits' aggression with nary a word. Then the smaller, darting figure off to the right, seeking to cut down those before they could coordinate an attack... that must be Felix, with the second blur behind him being Byleth.

That just left... 

Wait. Again, Bernadetta scanned the battlefield, impatiently pushing her wet clump of bangs away from her eyes. Ferdinand had once commended her for being so attuned to her own paranoia that she could often perceive a danger before anyone else would have imagined it, in part because she tried to keep tabs on nearly everything happening around her so that she wouldn't get an arrow to the shoulder from behind or a blade through her stomach or anything similarly agonizing.

She used that sense of wariness now, eyes darting over the field. And there, a flash of blond in the rain, moving... away? It wasn't like Dimitri to dart away from his allies like that, but he-- was he chasing something? Further ahead, a bandit, hauling along something... no, some_one._

Bernadetta's breath halted sharply. The bandit had a hostage. Dimitri was chasing after them, and she saw now the ominous orange glow of a mage hidden among the trees, waiting for the prince to get into range.

"Um," she squeaked, ducking back down through the foliage and dropping from the branch to the ground. It wasn't a particularly graceful landing, and Sylvain looked her way sharply, confused and currently blocking a bandit's blade with his axe. "Sylvain, there's--"

Wait. What was she doing? Sylvain had a horse, yes, much like Ingrid, which meant the two of them could easily cover more ground, but neither of them had bows or magic at their disposal. The front line fighters were too occupied, and Mercedes and Annette couldn't afford to leave themselves open to physical attacks. She didn't have the time to explain to _anyone_, and as Bernadetta realized all of this within seconds, resignation sat heavy in her stomach.

In a tactical move that she wasn't sure she _really_ wanted to feel grateful about, Sylvain had dismounted from his horse to gain more mobility while fighting in the forest. The mare, like all of the steeds at Garreg Mach, was too accustomed to battle to stand a risk of running off in the chaos and now stood idly by-- and Bernadetta bit her lip, then hooked her bow over her shoulder and grasped the saddle. Clambering onto a horse was not exactly an elegant move for her, but it was vastly easier than getting herself into a tree.

Her feet didn't reach the stirrups because _of course they didn't_, and Bernadetta heaved a frustrated whine, nonetheless nudging the mare with her heels to spur her into a gallop. As a recluse, she didn't have the riding expertise of Ferdinand or Edelgard - she had very little expertise in _anything_ noble, really - but she knew the basics and enjoyed taking care of the horses with Petra when they'd been assigned the task. It would have to be enough.

"Wait a-- Bernadetta?!" Sylvain's squawk was already fainter behind her, muffled by the rain, and she counted about seven frantic apologies that spilled from her lips like a litany. Was this stealing? Stealing from House Gautier's heir was probably a crime punishable by death. But she would bring the horse back!! _If_ she got there in time, and if she _didn't_ get there in time, they would have bigger problems than a student from the Black Eagles pilfering a horse in the middle of a fight.

And because she was placing herself closer and closer to said Big Problem with each pass of the horse's hooves across the soggy terrain, she was going to be the one held accountable. Bernadetta von Varley, the one who had been too slow to protect the prince, and would now be led to her execution for her irredeemable failure. She could hear the voices of the people of Faerghus now, chanting for her head.

This was a bad idea, she told herself, gripping the pommel of the saddle with one white-knuckled hand as she let the bow slide down the length of her arm to thunk solidly into her palm. This was, quite possibly, the worst idea she had _ever_ had. Who did she think she was, trying to rescue _anyone?_ The Blue Lions were the noble, just ones. The ones who all had deep, meaningful ties with each other and a former mercenary as a professor who probably ate enemies as a teatime snack.

They were fine without an outsider's interference. She was going to make things worse. Someone who hadn't been able to last three hours tied to a chair without begging for someone to come, despite _knowing_ that so much as a whimper meant a heavy blow and even more painful disapproval, could not possibly do a single thing _right._

But the mare could not read the turbulence of Bernadetta's thoughts, or sense her self-loathing, and so carried on with a wild toss of her head. The forest that housed the mage was looming ever closer, and as she caught sight of the white-clothed figure stepping out, hands raised and Dimitri too focused to react in time-- 

Bernadetta released the pommel in favor of grabbing an arrow from her quiver, fitted it to the string with fingers that shook, and launched it.

It missed. 

"Oh." The desolate murmur of Bernadetta von Varley, the one who had outright _missed_ and now the prince was going to get lit on fire and perish rightfully cursing her name and off to her execution she would go.

Her next sound, however, wasn't a sigh or a whisper for forgiveness from the Goddess, but a sharper cry of pain when a perfectly formed sphere of flame slammed not into Dimitri, but her shoulder. Only instinct kept her from dropping the bow to clutch at it; an archer losing their bow was the exact same as insulting Edelgard in front of Hubert-- an instant death sentence.

The mare, Seiros bless her, did not so much as falter and the rain prevented her entire arm from catching a hint and going up in flames. It didn't make her singed shoulder hurt any less, but if nothing else, it meant that she'd drawn the mage's attention. 

Which wasn't going to do anything for anyone if Bernadetta was just going to miss again. She couldn't stand in the stirrups to steady herself, her shoulder was burned, she felt like crying so everything was one big blur of grays and blues and dark greens that would have made for a beautiful painting any other day, _she couldn't do this_\--

_Breathe, Bernie._

Someone had told her that, long ago. Warm eyes and a gentle smile. She breathed, a strained gasp.

_Dimitri is your friend. You lost your first friend because you couldn't protect him. If you can't do this much..._

The mare cantered closer, the mage lifting their hands once more--

_They found him beaten half to death--_

_They'll kill him._

It wasn't a battle cry that tore from her throat, too panicked and scared and _angry_, but Bernadetta didn't pay any mind to it. It was enough, _just_ enough to still her trembling, fit the arrow to the string, haul it back to her ear in one single motion and letting it fly to embed itself in the mage's throat.

The sense of relief, watching the body thump onto the ground, nearly made her sick. Bernadetta barely had enough presence of mind to use her free hand to tug lightly on the reins, bringing the horse to a neat halt before she doubled over to press her face against that sopping wet mane.

Again, not one of her greater ideas, to wilt on a battlefield like this-- but the yells were growing fainter, and the next thing she heard was the deep intonation of a man who could snap her over his knee like a sapling.

"It's over."

"Is it?" Bernadetta asked faintly, turning her head to the side to regard Dedue. Well, that was promising. He wouldn't be talking so... terrifyingly calmly to her if Dimitri was in danger. "O-okay. Then please just kill me now and Sylvain can have his horse back a-and you can tell him I'm so sorry for stealing her, she's a really good mare, but of course he already knew that and, um, I--"

Dedue simply stared. He was so still that she had to dimly wonder if anyone had ever told him that he looked as though he'd been carved from stone.

Probably not anyone who'd then lived to tell the tale.

Finally, painstakingly slow, he extended his arms out and it was Bernadetta's turn to stare.

"... Huh?"

"You're hurt. I will assist you in dismounting."

Bernadetta wanted to point out that letting him pluck her up was like a bunny sprinting headlong into the gaping jaw of a lion if she agreed to that, but Dedue's arms weren't shaking half as much as hers were-- well. They weren't shaking at all, were they. No, of course not.

When she shifted her gaze past him, it was to see a bedraggled and soaked Annette, still smiling as though she had never learned the definition of fear, standing just behind him and doing a series of gestures that she could only take to mean "no, he won't crush you in his mighty grip".

Figuring that she could at least get through one whole movement that didn't look ridiculous, Bernadetta shivered out a sigh and gingerly reached out to grasp Dedue's arms. True to his word, he lifted her effortlessly off the mare's back, and as her legs left the saddle, she heard him once more, quieter.

"Thank you."

Then, unceremoniously, he turned, still keeping her suspended off the ground by her waist.

"Wait-- what? _Wait_\-- w-what are you doing??" Bernadetta squeaked, trying to wriggle free to no avail. He had a grip like iron to match his unwavering expression.

"Taking you to Mercedes. She'll heal you." Dedue continued his unerring walk, ignoring each and every protest Bernadetta came up with in the span of twenty seconds, and as Mercedes came trotting over to meet them and Dimitri anxiously jogged over within moments with a teary child in his arms, she swore that this had to be enough and after this, she'd never have to accompany this crazy bunch on a mission _ever again._

\---

She should have made the swear a blood oath to herself, was her dismal conclusion, waiting for the miserable shifting of her stomach to settle after a discreet stop to kneel and retch in a clump of bushes. In the rain, once more. She'd made sure to avoid the tiny yellow flowers growing in the shadow of the tower, so at least there was _one_ bright spot in a day that had included watching Sylvain's savagely scathing brother get devoured by a roiling, blood-tinged darkness and subsequently twist himself into the shape of a demonic creature.

The moment his screams had been mutilated into guttural bellows that made her very bones ache... the tormented flash of acknowledgment that Sylvain had held in his eyes when he'd beheld the creature they now had to destroy, and the fight that had ensued...

Bernadetta shuddered, pressing her palm to her mouth. The mood had been an understandably somber one after that, with Byleth taking that accursed lance and the group remaining close to Sylvain, who had lightly joked that he would have preferred this much attention to come solely from the ladies. But it also meant that Bernadetta could drag her feet, drop back behind the others and take a few minutes to just. Be pitiful.

"Bernadetta?"

Or, yet _again_, her plans could be singlehandedly destroyed by the prince. 

Entirely against Bernadetta's silent pleading for him to see to Sylvain instead, or put in a kind word to Annette because of the pained way she'd stared at Gilbert, or go chase a butterfly or just _leave_, Dimitri's hand carefully settled against a back sore from tensing and heaving and shuddering and getting viciously knocked into a wall earlier.

"I... er, see that I do not actually need to inquire about your health, do I?"

That was the nicest way to phrase "I definitely heard you vomit like you were trying to evacuate your internal organs" she'd ever heard, and Bernadetta couldn't even tell him that it was very sweet of him to act proper and polite about it. Instead, as per usual, the first words to come to mind were a hoarse "I'm sorry" filtered through her fingers.

Dimitri's hand moved slightly, firm pressure but slowly dragging-- but then he coughed softly and withdrew it before she could figure out what that was supposed to be. "There's no need to apologize. I... may have seen my fair share of... gruesome sights, but the same cannot be said for everyone. I can say, with all confidence, that you were not the only one to feel revulsion today. So I implore you, do not let yourself feel any amount of guilt over a reasonable reaction like this."

Again, the memory of those screams and the cracking of bones-- and Bernadetta squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

_Breathe, Bernie._

"That... was a person," she whispered finally, letting her hand drop limply to her side. "Someone's... family. Sylvain's _brother._ I can't... I-I shouldn't be here-- _you_ shouldn't be here, I'm sure he's--"

She'd _seen_ that struggle in his gaze, like regret. Even if he'd claimed his brother was deplorable, disowned, Sylvain hadn't wanted this fate for him. And yet, in the end, he'd...

"You're a kind girl, Bernadetta." There was something... slightly wavering, in Dimitri's tone. Something... pensive. Sad? "You hide yourself away and try to lag behind, to not cause others worry, but they remain in your thoughts even now. It's admirable."

Had she not still felt dizzy, she would have shaken her head emphatically. She hid because she was _afraid_, she didn't want people to-- she didn't want _these_ people, who smiled at her and invited her to share meals with them and bled and fought with her and offered their friendship so guilelessly to see just how scared and pitiful she was. Because she wasn't like them. "No--"

"You know, Dimitri, I'm _impressed!_ Sneaking off to the back of a group to start practicing your wiles on our little Bernadetta before she flits on back to her House? I see you're finally taking my advice to heart!"

Bernadetta tensed up instantly, and only Dimitri's quick grasp of her shoulders kept her from losing her balance into the bush. "S-- Syl--!"

"It wasn't like that in the slightest!" Dimitri retorted. "I just did not wish for Bernadetta to fall behind, and if she's feeling better, then I suggest we move to catch up with the others."

Dimitri, Bernadetta noted distantly as he helped her to her feet, was probably an ideal Dorothea candidate. Caring, earnest, (far too) strong, capable, responsible, and he'd just held a conversation with a girl who'd been sick to her stomach without crinkling his nose. And a prince! That was as noble as you could get, and more power to Dorothea, because the thought of getting herself romantically involved with royalty was enough to renew her silent resolution to remain alone forever after graduation. That was too much of a guaranteed hassle.

"Sure, sure," Sylvain was saying when she paid attention again, giving Dimitri a friendly jostle to the side. "Anyway, Bernadetta--"

"Please don't hurt me," she said automatically, feebly, tiredly. Sylvain's eyebrow arched and then he laughed, lightly.

"Interesting reply, but duly noted. I was _going_ to say that you don't need to worry. The man we killed today was a monster-- nothing more, nothing less. And from what our dear professor's hinted at... well, we can't _all_ have loving and supportive families, right? It'd be boring."

The way he looked at her, steadily, his easy smile not reaching his eyes--

Bernadetta nodded desperately and quickened her pace, seeking to rejoin the rest of the group so it wasn't just her and Dimitri's concerned gaze and Sylvain's knowing one, although he _couldn't_ know--

Dorothea was right, she thought, walking faster with shaking legs. Sylvain was far too dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to stick with alternating POVs but this one made more sense from Bernadetta's viewpoint, so Dimitri will get the spotlight next time. Thank you all again for your support!!


	4. Lance Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri finds himself fulfilling an unexpected request. Mentions of Bernadetta's C-support with Ingrid and Dimitri's C and B-supports with Sylvain. Also a very vague mention of Bernadetta's B-support with Dorothea, but that'll get a little more attention later.

"So, now that you've been informed of the situation," Ingrid said crisply, kneeling to set down her armful of several planks of wood, a hammer, and an assortment of different-sized nails down on the rug, "I'd appreciate it if you could do me that one small favor. Bernadetta may be at the training grounds right now, but I can't in good faith say she'll _remain_ there if she thinks she won't have a partner. Since I'll be preoccupied fixing this, I thought you might be the perfect candidate to oversee her lance training."

While he knew that his childhood friend would find nothing deplorable about Dimitri dragging a hand down his face, he somehow managed to keep both hands at his sides. How a walk along the grounds had become an unexpected encounter with an unrepentant Ingrid and the corpse of Bernadetta's door, he didn't know. But he didn't dare stand in the doorway and stare into a young lady's private quarters so openly-- such a thing wasn't very fitting behavior for a prince.

"I suppose I simply hadn't... expected you'd be so... _forceful_, about getting her to train." Ingrid was diligent, just as devoted to training as Dimitri himself was, but aside from the (admittedly numerous) occasions that she'd seized Sylvain mid-flirt by the collar and bodily hauled him to the grounds, she didn't have much of a penchant for giving anyone else in the Blue Lions the same treatment. 

Ingrid's sigh was a breath short of exasperated. "You've seen her in multiple battles now, Your Highness. I _know_ you've seen her strength and the potential she still has. Potential she's squandering by hiding away inside of her room. Regardless of her reasons for being here, doing nothing during her stay is only a waste of her skills. And--"

She fell silent, lips twisting in a troubled frown. It was a rare moment when Ingrid didn't finish a sentence with the same confidence that she started one and Dimitri gazed at her inquisitively, preferring to let her find that thought on her own, rather than prompt her before she was ready to speak.

Ingrid's gratitude shone in her eyes, even as she continued carefully. "Bernadetta's reasons likely aren't the same, but... I still remember what it was like, feeling too broken to face the world, to watch it continue to go on without him. Only wanting to stay inside my room. I'm certain... you remember that time, too."

The bridge of his nose felt tight, the warning just before his left temple throbbed. Of course Dimitri remembered. The mane and tail of Ingrid's beloved mare, increasingly matted by the day, Felix's angrily lost expressions, Sylvain circling helplessly between his friends.

Glenn's voice, shaking and pain-soaked. _Why did you let this happen? I was supposed to be here. We were supposed to be here. This is not justice. GIVE US JUSTICE!!_

"As though I could forget," came Dimitri's hoarse murmur.

For a moment, the two of them were quiet, and while Dimitri knew Glenn's dying words were whispered only to him, the weight of his parting sat cruelly upon both their backs.

"Bernadetta trusts you," Ingrid said at last, still so soft. "I may have broken down one door, quite... literally, but I'll need your help to keep her from closing herself behind another one."

Ingrid was really giving him far too much credit, he felt. When Byleth had announced two new arrivals for the Blue Lions earlier that moon, Bernadetta had been shivering behind Dorothea's confident stance. That it had seemed to him that her eyes had met his first before she'd nervously stammered out a greeting to the class at large... well, he could explain that away by presuming that she'd merely wanted to make sure he couldn't _possibly_ startle her for once with any sudden movements.

Still, it was true that they were friends and that she no longer shrieked and assumed he wished her grievous harm when he approached her. And training her in lances would only be beneficial in the future. He would just have to take immense care in broaching the subject to her, because-- well, no. Bernadetta was so reclusive, surely she ought not to have heard of his... reputation.

It was a hope dashed against the rocks of reality when he strode onto the training grounds, posture open and inviting, and watched as Bernadetta's face went from Anxious Trepidation to Nightmare Realized.

"_Why?_" She whimpered, clutching her practice lance closer-- more like a hug than any kind of defensive stance. "Oooh, Bernie, you should have _realized!_ Of course she'd send the Terror of the Training Grounds! The Dummy Destroyer! The _Waster of Weapons--_"

Dimitri did his best not to grimace. So she _had_ heard.

"Now, Bernadetta..." He knew all too well that he was using the same placating tone he'd used on bristling wary orphans and easily-spooked horses, but she _looked_ as though she was one step away from sprinting to some perceived safety. "You have my most solemn word that I won't be hurting you. And really, I-- most of that was when I was much younger and lacked discipline and restraint! And the last dummy was fairly old, they said, on its last leg--"

"Y-you said _most_, Prince Dimitri," Bernadetta pointed out. Granted, her knees were still knocking together, but it was enough of a retort that he couldn't help but find some small enjoyment in it. Except for one thing, and he smiled ruefully, stepping over to the weapons rack to select a lance of his own. 

"I believe I _also_ said it was fine to merely call me Dimitri." He tested the weight of the first lance he grasped, then opted for a heavier one. Less likely to shatter, just in case. "I promise, I am only here to offer my advice, not to spar with you."

_As Felix seems to be so enamored with attempting,_ he did not dare to add. Her nerves were addled enough without giving her any cause to think that Felix would suddenly appear to demand her knowledge of some unknown technique.

Bernadetta stared at him dubiously, her thin eyebrows drawn close in suspicion. "You're... not going to make me fight you?"

Dimitri smiled and walked closer, letting the tip of the wooden lance angle behind him. "I'd like you to try to strike at me, but I won't be retaliating, only blocking. Much as Sylvain might strive to have you believe it, no one mastered battling with a lance in a single day. Thus we'll be focusing on your technique and having your body adjust to the movements. The arm and back strength you've already developed as an archer will aid you well with the lance."

She continued to gaze at him, before her eyes lowered and she let her shoulders down just a bit. It was as much of an acknowledgment as he could ask for, Dimitri knew, and when her gaze met his again, he nodded encouragingly. 

"To begin, you'll want to move your hands so they're not touching at all." To be frank, she still needed to not be clutching the lance like a cherished childhood token, and Bernadetta's face colored as she apparently reached that same conclusion and shifted her palms further apart along the wood. "Yes, like that. Slide your left foot back, angle the lance to your side, so that your right hand is just like your right foot-- arms and legs in a similar position. That will grant you stability. You always want to be prepared to counter."

"L-like this?" Bernadetta's nervousness, the way she kept quickly glancing down at herself, then up at him just as swiftly with an air of guilt... Dimitri could vividly recall how he himself had felt, learning from someone with more experience. Eager, desiring to learn and prove that he was an attentive student.

And indeed, she was very attentive, following his instructions immediately to improve her positioning, but she seemed braced for-- something. No, Dimitri thought, not quite braced. _Fearful._ Did she dread his disapproval?

_Bernadetta trusts you,_ Ingrid had said but, studying the small girl peering at him now, Dimitri could only see someone who seemed desperate to please for the wrong reasons. If he couldn't get her to relax, to want to learn for her _own_ sake, this lesson would be for naught.

"... I have a proposition," he said slowly, still considerate of his tone. "Would you be willing to humor me?"

Bernadetta blinked, readjusting her grip on the lance. "Um... sure? I guess? W-what kind of proposition?"

Dimitri took two steps back, rolling his shoulders. "If you're able to land a strike on me, I'll ensure that Felix, Sylvain, Dedue, Ingrid and myself don't partner with you for House training sessions for... let's say until the following moon. I know they favor rigorous spars." 

He knew he had her when some of that anxiety faded from her eyes, to be replaced by a more curious light. "That... sounds great, actually! Oh, but wait--" Her lips moved soundlessly for a moment, like she was forming a silent argument-- and once she'd reached the conclusion, her eyebrows lifted. "What... what about you? What if I _can't_ hit you? I-it's training every day with _all of you_, isn't it? _Isn't it??_"

A laugh escaped him before he could politely suppress it. "Perish the thought! No, my request is much simpler."

"W... what is it?"

He grinned. "That you call me Dimitri."

* * *

To her credit, Bernadetta was a fast study when she was feeling properly motivated. Dimitri wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that half of her motivation had to do with _not_ having to train with him for a good few weeks, but he supposed he couldn't quite blame her. Given that the people he'd listed had startled her into a head injury, had an unfortunately hard-to-shake reputation for causing weapons damage, glared at anyone and everyone (except Annette who really might just have been immune to intimidation in general), broke her _door_ and...

He couldn't quite fathom what Sylvain had done to earn Bernadetta's wariness, beyond probably flirting with her ostentatiously, but she _did_ choose to give his redheaded friend a wide berth and Dimitri thought it better not to press for additional detail.

Still, for all of her determination, deflecting her strikes wasn't terribly difficult. He'd trained with the lance far longer and she was still too careful with her swings, stepping either too wide or keeping her feet close together when she moved back.

"Remember to bend your knees," he called to her, nodding his approval when he lowered her center of gravity just enough. "And don't be afraid to put additional force into your strikes. Even if one should land, the worst it will cause is a bruise."

Bernadetta scrunched up her nose, clearly displeased. "And then Dedue will come after me for injuring Your Highness and I'll never see the dim lit of my room again. No thanks, Bernie's gonna play it safe."

Dimitri lifted his lance to block her next swing, eyebrows lifted. "You know as well as I do that Dedue would not spring to my defense over a mere bruise earned in training. And, ah... not to change the subject, but I've been wondering something." Her dismissal had brought it to the forefront and he couldn't resist asking, though he kept his voice light and mild. "You... occasionally refer to yourself with a nickname, I've noticed. But not one I've heard others address you with."

Dorothea called her "Bern", but... he let the thought trail off when he saw Bernadetta worry at her lower lip, about to apologize when she gave her head a shake.

"Petra calls me Bernie sometimes, but... honestly, it's kind of a silly reason." Again, she hesitated, but when Dimitri only tilted his head and smiled gently, she continued with slow, halting words. 

"My uncle... used to call me Bernie. He said I was much too small for such a big name right from the start, so for as far back as I can remember, I was just Bernie to him. My father hated it, said it was unbefitting of a noble, but... I really liked it. It made me feel like... I was more than just Bernadetta von Varley, someone's future wife. Like I was just... _me._"

She moved a hand off the lance to flap it limply, her chuckle so self-deprecating that something echoed in Dimitri's heart, a faint pang. "Well, 'me' isn't all that great, but more importantly... when he died, I thought that was it. No more kindness, no more warmth or jokes, no more Bernie... and I couldn't really bear it, not hearing that ever again. So, when I started feeling lonely, I'd just... start talking to myself. Just to hear it. To feel braver. And... it just stuck, I guess. Maybe by now, it's just my way of keeping his memory close."

Dimitri didn't say anything for a moment. He _couldn't_ say anything for a moment, his mind swimming with questions, with sympathetic gestures and platitudes that he _did_ mean, but would surely sound so sweetly false to her ears. A way to keep her her cherished memories of her kindly uncle close, although now she seemed ashamed of it... surely he did not whisper tragic lamentations to her, and for that, Dimitri could only be grateful.

"Please," he managed, right as Bernadetta began to look miserable again. "Do not look so shamefaced, Bernadetta. Missing your uncle so deeply is not something to feel any measure of guilt over. I must apologize, for making you recall something painful."

"N-no!" Her face flushed and she brought the lance up again, scrambling to get back into their lesson. Again, Dimitri blocked it. "You didn't-- I-I mean, it was a long time ago, and I'm-- you know what, that's more than enough about me! Um, so, Your Highness! You've known Ingrid and Felix and Dorothea's prob-- Sylvain since you were all children, right? That must've been... fun??"

She was getting progressively squeakier in her desperate attempt to change the subject, and Dimitri lightly nudged her lance away, opting to follow the erratic flow of the new course she'd just set. "I'm not certain that 'fun' is the word that any of those tasked to watch us would have chosen, but... we did have our fair share of adventures. The ones that got us into actual trouble were mostly led by Sylvain, but even Ingrid had a bit of a wild streak to her."

"_Had_," Bernadetta groaned under her breath, disbelieving, and again, he couldn't curb his laugh in time.

"Yes, more so than now. She was more apt to have mud in her hair than braids. Which I'll have to beg your favor to keep that particular fact between us, or I too may be missing a door to my room before long."

"I'm good at keeping secrets," his current student promised, and he thought it better not to tell her that he'd seen her yelling in the entrance hall to Alois about some manner of highly specific denial. "Still, though... that must be nice, having childhood friends."

Dimitri eyed her curiously. "Well, you're... not wrong, but even if you may have parted ways, surely you must have had companions as a child?"

Within two seconds of the words innocently leaving his lips, he instantly regretted it when he saw the effect they had on Bernadetta. Her breathing abruptly changed, a distressed hitch of air, her wistful smile vanishing in favor of a more morose mien, and those grey eyes clouded over like a warning of an unforgiving storm.

Just when he was about to apologize - again - her grip tightened on the lance, and she lowered her head. Her reply was just above a whisper.

"Nothing good came of being my friend."

Now even more concerned than before, Dimitri opened his mouth-- 

And several things happened in rapid succession.

"Prince _Dimitri_!!" Someone who was not Bernadetta shrieked, from right behind him. Someone who _was_ Bernadetta squealed as well, and with his head turned to face the interrupter, Dimitri earned himself a smack to the right shoulder with the training lance.

It smarted a bit, proof that surprise had finally lent her the strength he'd requested, but he had no time to praise her when the aforementioned intruder was making her way towards him, followed swiftly by Sylvain, who managed to look simultaneously apologetic and amused. 

Ah. If he recalled correctly (and he did, because he'd once stared into those brown eyes and fumbled for something to say to uphold his end of the bargain with Sylvain), she was--

"It's not true, is it?! When you told me to save you from drowning in the sweet depths of my eyes, I knew--! I _knew_ we were meant to be! What Sylvain says, about you being attracted to me because I reminded you of somebody's grandfather-- no! It _can't_ be true!"

Ever so slowly, Dimitri turned himself completely around to level an incredulous stare at Sylvain over the girl's shoulder. Sylvain could only shrug and mouth "I tried," as though this absolved him of all wrongdoings. 

"I'm afraid," Dimitri said faintly, doing his best not to cringe when he remembered that Bernadetta, sweet, innocent Bernadetta, was standing _right_ there and likely growing more traumatized by the second, "that he is indeed correct. I... long for the, ah... embrace of the elderly... shameful as that may be. Please forgive me for misleading you."

The scandalized screech hurt his ears this time, and as Sylvain laid a soothing hand on the girl's shoulder, Dimitri decided to leave further damage control to him and briskly turned back to Bernadetta-- only to murmur an apology after all, grab both lances and encircle her wrist with his free hand to _run_ with her in tow.

With the girl and their classmate left far behind by the time he chose to stop, conveniently by Bernadetta's (also conveniently) fixed door, Dimitri sucked in a lungful of air and bowed perfunctorily. "I should have warned you, but I thought it might be best not to linger in such an environment... are you all right? I hadn't wished to force you--"

"I-it's fine," Bernadetta said faintly, even as she sounded both winded and overwhelmed. "I... would've run from someone with that... kind of glare, too... s-so I... completely understand. Except for the elderly part."

Dimitri took a calming breath, slipping his eyes shut for a moment. "A long and troubling tale, but suffice to say that Sylvain's lines to appear approachable to young ladies are beyond my expertise and ought to remain that way. I believe that was his attempt to make me seem less... appealing."

Of all the excuses, though... well. No matter, not right now. "But I must congratulate you, Bernadetta. You saw the ideal opportunity and struck true. I will, of course, follow through on my promise to you. From tomorrow onward, I shall not--"

"Um," Bernadetta piped up, fidgeting with her hands. "That was... kind of an accident, so I'm not really sure if it counts... and while I reeeeeaaaally appreciate that I won't have to spar with Felix or Ingrid, do you... think we can do this again? The professor's probably not gonna let me dodge lance training for that long, and if I have to do it, well... you're not... bad. You didn't break any dummies or anything else."

No, Dimitri thought, merely some girl's heart and Bernadetta's growing sense of steadiness because he'd asked an intrusive question that had managed to hurt her. But the fact that she was still asking to train with him was more than he felt he deserved. Another chance.

_A chance we never received,_ his stepmother sighed, cold and distant, so disapproving. _When will you grant us our justice?_

_Please be patient,_ he begged her, hoping that none of this showed on his face when he realized that he was standing too long in silence. He cleared his throat, gazing down at the small girl in front of him. 

"If that is what you wish-- then yes, of course I'd be happy to continue training you. You've already demonstrated a solid grasp of the basics, so I would call today a successful lesson, barring the rather unfortunate... way it had to end. Still... you have my thanks for your cooperation, Bernadetta."

Bernadetta smiled shyly at him, her eyes back to their normal lightness. "Thanks for trying to help me at all," she finally said, each word carefully delivered. "And for listening... Dimitri."

In the few seconds that it took to process what she'd just said, she was safely back in her room, leaving him standing there with two lances in his hand and a puzzlement that slowly began to clarify into realization.

_Dimitri._

And the voices fell silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to everyone who's given kudos or comments, you have no idea how much the support means to me! Next up will be the mock battle, oh boy.


	5. Mock-Battles and Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of the Lion and Eagle commences. The aftermath gets more problematic than expected. Some more references to various supports.

Bernadetta's ears were ringing. Everything sounded so distant, even though she logically knew that the field was currently a chaotic tug-and-shove of students adorned in their House colors. For the immediate moment, she could have been underwater, everything dim and murky, water dripping down her forehead.

But that couldn't have been right. It wasn't raining. This must have been--

The muffled, stifled noises finally began to coalesce into actual words. Yelling. Yelling _what_, she couldn't make out, but her vision wobbled, slid into blurriness, and then clarified into something... not _great_, but doable.

Just in time to see Dimitri charge past an exasperatedly-frowning Edelgard and slam his lance into Caspar's side, who for some reason had been looking at _her_ in alarm and not the furiously glaring prince who had made no effort to disguise or muffle his movements. Then again, Caspar had never really understood the meaning of important concepts like "self-preservation" and "fear".

When Bernadetta blinked again, reaching up a hand to touch her temple, she saw red. The powder that symbolized the Eagles, the same powder that Seteth had ordered all participating students to smear on their blunt, dulled or wooden weapons so as to determine which House had "defeated" the most opponents once the mock-battle had concluded.

Seeing that wasn't surprising. But the blood on her fingertips? Certainly unexpected, but seeing it abruptly jarred her memory, knocking her from her dazed state into suddenly agonized clarity when the pain also flared as a reminder.

Right, the pain was an absolutely helpful reminder that Caspar von Bergliez had just punched her in the face.

"I thought you took additional caution to explain the rules to him," was the first thing she heard, from Edelgard-- to Linhardt, who was pressing a single finger to his forehead as though he was dearly hoping it would ward off a headache.

"I _did_," he grumbled, managing to sound both long-suffering and drowsy at the same time. "I _specifically_ mentioned that under no circumstances was he to forget that this was a _mock_-battle and that causing intentional and lasting physical harm, as well as purposely aiming for the facial or cranial region, was unacceptable."

Caspar, who was a little too busy trying to block Dimitri's flurry of strikes with his gauntlets to defend his honor, could only yelp indignant-sounding apologies.

The sudden firm pressure on both shoulders and the quick utterance of "It's me" prevented Bernadetta from screaming, screeching, or making any other embarrassing noise that would have only served to irritate Felix further. He was silent then, moving in front of her to scrutinize her (or at least, that's what it looked like, she was having trouble seeing out of one eye). Having apparently reached a decision, he nudged her shoulder.

"If you're still standing, you can walk. We're going over to Flayn. I'm _not_ carrying you, so don't even think about pulling that wobbly foal act with me."

"Thank you," Bernadetta croaked, sincerely grateful for this rare act of mercy. After waking up once in Dimitri's arms and having Dedue carry her to Mercedes, to say nothing of times before that with Caspar hoisting her over his shoulder and Hubert-- she still didn't know whether Hubert had carried her or merely levitated her with the force of whatever demonic spirit he'd clearly formed a pact with, but she could never be picked up again and it would have been too soon.

Felix only clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Whatever. Just keep walking. I want to see if I can get back over there to cross blades with that Brigid girl before Ingrid defeats her."

Petra and Ingrid were fighting? That... was bound to go on for awhile. Ingrid was swift, but so was Petra, who also had a knack for hitting extremely hard. It was no wonder Felix wanted to intercede in that particular altercation, though Bernadetta's concerns rested more with who they'd just left behind.

As inconspicuously as she could, she glanced over her shoulder. Caspar was waving frantically in her direction, still hollering apologies-- only to double over when Dimitri swept his lance against his side and dropped him with a rather unceremonious yank of his weapon.

"That stupid boar," Felix growled, having seen right past her careful attempt of secrecy. "Losing himself in his anger like the beast he is. He preaches restraint and discipline and then tosses it aside the minute it's convenient for him. It makes me _sick._"

It made no sense to Bernadetta. Felix had been a childhood friend of Dimitri's, according to him. No one had ever said differently. But the way he spoke of him - the way he spoke _to_ him - was even more abrasive and scathing than his usual manner. She'd even caught the sliver of a smirk when she'd seen him talking to Annette in the greenhouse-- which hadn't been all that long, because Bernadetta had promptly fled before he could see her.

But her well-honed sense of caution (and the worsening throbbing of her injury) warned her against inquiring further. Whatever it was, it seemed to only exist between Felix and Dimitri. And if they wanted her to know more, they'd tell her. It wasn't her business, she reminded herself, despite the thin thread of worry that tugged at her conscience.

"Ah! Splendid, you've made it!" Flayn came rushing over, effulgent. Just as rapidly, Felix disappeared from her side, likely to sprint off in Petra's direction. "I'll tend to you now. You fought well, Bernadetta."

Bernadetta doubted that. The battle had to be close to finishing, with Annette and the professor teaming up to face Claude and Dimitri so close to Edelgard. The most _she_ had done was to defend the ballista for awhile, after driving off the Black Eagles student manning it and to hit that loud noble on a horse who _wasn't_ Ferdinand with a few blue-tipped arrows.

But Flayn was already extending a softly-glowing hand in her direction and she had to brace herself for the discomfort of her still unfamiliar magic. Healing magic, to Bernadetta, required a period of adjustment, because it held just enough of a characteristic of its wielder to feel completely different. Linhardt's had felt a bit like slamming her face into a pillow at the peak of exhaustion, and Mercedes' healing spells were now familiar enough to put her in mind of walking into a kitchen and feeling the wave of warm, sugary air from a batch of cookies coil around her.

Flayn's magic, however, was sharp and sudden, like jerking awake from a nap with no recollection as to why or even how long one had been asleep. It did the job, though, and Bernadetta's sigh of relief was louder than she meant it to be when her vision finally cleared and the only sign that she'd been hit at all was a little residual tenderness.

"T-thanks," she remembered to say, belatedly. Flayn continued to beam at her, patting her hand.

"Think nothing of it, my fellow classmate. Now, come! Let us help to bring about a glorious victory!"

"Sylvain!! Do _not_ flirt with that cleric, or so help me--!!"

With Ingrid's harsh scolding as the perfect counterpoint to the idea of a glorious _anything_, Bernadetta glanced down at the bow she still held and let her shoulders slump.

"R-right. Let's go."

* * *

It wasn't all that glorious, between Sylvain being reamed out for attempting to seduce several opponents while on the battlefield ("Tactics!!" he'd insisted, to an unamused Ingrid _and_ Dorothea), Ferdinand and that purple noble (Lorenz?) cordially and loudly critiquing the other's noble combat ability after they'd both been disqualified and doing so from opposite ends of the field, and Linhardt being the last Black Eagle remaining and flatly stating that he surrendered, because he _really_ didn't want to be facing Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid at the same time.

But the win still belonged to the Blue Lions and despite being dragged to the dining hall by Annette and Mercedes to join in on the Interhouse Feast that Claude had suggested, Bernadetta was simply grateful to have a chance to catch her breath.

Which... had yet to happen. Petra had come running over to wrap both her and Dorothea in a hug, excitedly chatting about how much enjoyment the fight had given her and that she was glad to see them both thriving. Then, as if sensing that Felix had shown her the benevolence of _not_ carrying her earlier, Caspar had shown up to pick Bernadetta up by the waist so she had nowhere to go and nothing to do but stare at him in the wake of seven earnest apologies.

"And did I mention I'm _really_ sorry, because I am, and not because Linhardt said I should be! I was just-- I mean, did you see me and Raphael duking it out before? My blood was just _boiling_ and I just kept wanting to get off a really good right hook but then your face was there before I knew it-- anyway, so I'm sorry, but tell Dimitri he's amazing! Do you get to train with him every day?! My ribs still kinda hurt, but I'd love a chance to go toe-to-toe with him again! Oh hey, I'm gonna go find the professor and see if I can join your class and then he'll _have_ to spar with me! Sorry again!"

"Put me down," Bernadetta said faintly, about ten seconds after Caspar had indeed dropped her and trotted off into the throng, exchanging blithe greetings with Raphael on the way.

Annette was another one he waved to and she waved back, before trotting over to join Bernadetta. "So how about that battle earlier, huh? I'd say we both put in our best work, wouldn't you say, my fellow has-plenty-of-time-to-grow-er??"

In the face of Annette's ebullience, Bernadetta could only smile. "_You_ were amazing. You were fighting Claude, weren't you? As an archer, I don't have anything on him."

Annette puffed out her chest proudly, even as her eyes twinkled with humor. "I only got nervous when he flipped like that to _fire!_ But me and the professor could take him, easy."

"_All those arrow marks in your sleeve say differently!!_" called a voice that Bernadetta had to assume was Claude.

"_You looked great when I flung you into that tree!!_" Annette bellowed back, going from projecting across the hall to lowering her voice to normal conversing levels within seconds. "Anyway, don't give me that, Bernadetta! You did great! You kept everyone from seizing the ballista!"

"And Dimitri had to help me," Bernadetta reminded her, quietly.

The other girl only grinned, shaking her head. "He didn't _have_ to help you. I think he just sorta panicked when he heard you cry out like that. Believe it or not..." She held her hand to the right side of her mouth, her tone growing conspiratorial. "Felix got the same way once."

"_Felix??_" Unlike Annette, Bernadetta couldn't keep her voice low or anything other than incredulous, though she did her utmost to temper it when the redhead shot her a quick look and slammed a finger to her lips.

"Look, I know, it sounds crazy. But before you joined up with us, we were routing bandits and I got an arrow to the shoulder. Felix was, you know, supposed to be doing his Felix thing and taking them down near the front, but he was there before I knew it, going after that archer like I missed my target and set fire to _his_ heels. And, you know, calling me an idiot the whole time, which was _reeeeaally_ not appreciated. But Ingrid said later that that's... just a sign that he cares. A... really hard to interpret sign, but still a sign! So-- you're still with me?"

Bernadetta, who was attempting to wrap her mind around the concept of a Felix who was worried enough to come running to someone's aid in the midst of his battle fever, slowly nodded and Annette mirrored the gesture.

"So I think... that's probably how it was with His Highness. He knows you're capable, like Felix knows I am - at least, he _better_ know - but sometimes that's not your first thought. You see someone important to you actually getting hurt, and you just-- act! Like how you were that one time when you stole Sylvain's horse and--"

"Reminder not needed," Bernadetta interjected hastily. "I-I get it. I mean, I don't think I'm that important of a person to him, but--"

"Nuh-uh." Annette's tone took on a new sternness, brooking no disagreement. "Whatever you believe, actions sometimes beat words. If you want both, though, you could just _ask_ him."

"Er--"

The clearing of someone's throat turned their attention to Dedue, who stood there patiently. "His Highness has left some time ago with the professor. I am uncertain as to when he will return."

"Huh," Annette mused, clearly intrigued. "With the _professor_... I wonder what _that's_ about."

Bernadetta said nothing and could only be relieved when Caspar and Raphael loudly began a second argument over training techniques and Claude and Edelgard had to break them up. The subsequent food fight that followed meant that she didn't have to continuously check the doors to see if Dimitri had returned.

(He did not. And neither, she deliberately did _not_ take note of, did the professor.)

* * *

Bernadetta had never really understood the phrase "time flies". When she had been younger, time had felt like a torturous dragging of the hours, every minute another bit of hope lost that perhaps now, _now_, Father would deem her sufficient enough and return to her, loosen the ropes that kept her back painfully stiff and straight, hands perfectly clasped in her lap for she was tied in such a way that her arms could not move anywhere else.

("Be attentive, not attention-seeking," Father had told her. "You must never be the focus.")

The hours had inched along when she'd first arrived at the monastery and spent the first five days huddled in a room, praying that someone would knock and tell her there had been some mistake, that no generous donation had been made to the church in the Varley name in order to "allow" her to attend, that she could go home.

(Seteth did indeed knock, but only to insist that she eat something, and Dorothea had brought her the notes diligently, slipped underneath her door, until Bernadetta finally accepted her fate as a student.)

And now, creeping inevitably towards the end of the second week, Bernadetta would have given anything _not_ to have come to the irrefutable conclusion that Dimitri was avoiding her. She'd automatically assumed it when he was in class following the mock-battle and he'd nodded swiftly to her when their eyes had met but said nothing else. But she'd done her best to ignore her concern, telling herself that-- no, for once, it was her imagination.

But that had been before he'd stayed behind to speak with the professor after class. And before _Gilbert_ had been the one to greet her at the training grounds for her weekly lance lesson, explaining that the young prince had requested it, as he had other engagements that he had to attend to.

It wasn't as though he was making a point not to engage with everyone, either. Bernadetta had overheard Mercedes laughing softly with Annette over Dimitri having bent six sewing needles in his attempts to master a needle and thread. Caspar had proudly proclaimed only yesterday that he was sure to win their _next_ spar, after having lost two in a row. And of course, she'd seen him herself, constantly accompanying the professor, with Dedue either in tow or within sight.

But he didn't call out to her. He smiled, politely, when their eyes met, but he was quick to excuse himself if she opened her mouth to speak. And so, as the days hauled themselves by, hour by excruciating hour, Bernadetta stopped trying. 

Whatever this was, it was her fault. Perhaps what he'd seen of her during the mock-battle had disgusted him. She'd been ill-prepared for Caspar's attack, after all, but she should have been more alert. Or was he affronted that she, some noble from the Empire, had made _him_, the crown prince of Faerghus, worry? He probably felt as though she'd wasted all of his time and effort with her, or had realized that she was as hopeless as her father had known her to be and turned his attention elsewhere. 

He seemed enamored with Byleth, which failed to surprise her. The professor was strong, assured, reliable-- just the other day, Bernadetta had seen them in the kitchen, heads bowed over a steaming pot of what smelled strongly of chicken broth. And as she pushed open the door to the training grounds, more out of habit than out of any expectation that Dimitri would be there today...

Gilbert stood there, waiting, and the irrational urge to cry welled up so strongly that Bernadetta swayed where she stood, choking back nausea and misery until she backed up and promptly returned to her room.

That night, she dreamed of disappointment. Of heavy blows, exasperated dismissals, the boy she'd known as a child, blood-soaked, barely breathing, only blame in his dull gaze. Her father, barely acknowledging her when she'd failed him one too many times. Dimitri, shaking his head, walking away.

The following morning, the weight of bowing her head beneath that nightmarish disapproval kept her shivering in her room. She didn't leave. She _couldn't_ leave, not when the fear had such a grip on her heart. She was going to miss class. She had a test she needed to study for. It was her day to tend to the horses with Sylvain.

_You're useless. No one needs you. This is what happens when they expect things from you. They'd be happier if you just stayed here and never bothered them again. Maybe they'll hurt you, for wasting their time._

"Breathe, Bernie," she whispered into her palms.

No one came to check on her through most of the day, likely because Dorothea was familiar with what Ferdinand had dubbed (with her permission) Bad Bernadetta Days where she couldn't bring herself to leave her room. That, or people simply didn't care, which she thought made about the same amount of sense as Dorothea putting in a word for her. Probably more.

Then, a single knock. Bernadetta tensed, lifting her eyes to the door. If it was Ingrid, this was the last time she'd ever see it standing. Perhaps it was time to compose a poem for it--

"Bernadetta? It's Sylvain."

"S-- _Sylvain?_" Bernadetta shifted, pushed herself to her feet, surprise adding additional strain to her words.

A sigh, then a laugh. "Good, you're conscious. Everyone was worried, but Dorothea and Caspar both said this happens sometimes. I just wanted to tell you that Ashe helped out with the horses, so you don't have to feel bad about missing stable duty."

Ashe to the rescue yet again, as sweet and as capable as ever. Another person to apologize to tomorrow, but for now...

"I'm sorry, Sylvain," she whispered, clearing her throat to speak a little louder when she realized whispering wouldn't really cut it when she was still behind a rather thick door. "I'm-- _really_ sorry, I just keep--"

"Didn't I just say you don't have to feel bad?" Sylvain's voice was as light as ever, and without looking at him, she couldn't tell whether his smile reached his eyes or not. "Listen, I _get_ it. Ingrid spent close to a month locked in _her_ room once. What _my_ question is... did something happen with your appearance-obsessed family or does this have to do with His Highness being a single-minded idiot?"

If Bernadetta thought she had been tense before, it was a mere toothpick compared to the spear of paralysis that slammed into her, every muscle of her body locking up so suddenly that she almost couldn't breathe. How-- why-- never mind _Dimitri_, how did he--

"I'm not trying to pry," Sylvain continued, and she had a panicked moment of wondering if any incriminating words had just fallen from her suddenly numb tongue. "I noticed it, when I was reading your manuscript-- the heroine having a demanding father who wanted her to be something she wasn't, at the cost of her courage until she gained capable comrades. It... kind of struck a note with me. And... well, I doubt you remember it, you kind of had other things on your mind at the moment, but... I was there. In the entrance hall, when that servant dropped you off at the monastery in a bag. Per your own mother's orders, of course."

He... he was _there?_ Sylvain was right, Bernadetta had been far too stricken with terror at the time to pay attention to anyone who might have been using the entrance hall for reasons other than completing a kidnapping. There _might_ have been a flash of crimson hair, a student or two who had gaped at her, but she couldn't clarify her memory any more than that.

"Uh, so--" Sylvain coughed, now sounding slightly more uncertain. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right. And if it _was_ something His Highness did, I can definitely--"

"It's--!" Forcing the words out scraped the tenderness of her throat, but even more painful was ruminating on the fact that Sylvain knew just how pitiful she was before she'd ever learned his name. "It's not... Dimitri's fault. Or my family's fault. I-it's mine. I did-- I _must_ have done something wrong back when we had our battle with the other houses. I messed up, I couldn't do much a-and now he hates me and he never wants to train me or talk to me again because I couldn't even defend myself--"

"Bernadetta."

That... _wasn't_ Sylvain's voice. Bernadetta choked, coughed, but unfortunately did not expire on the spot.

"Oh!" Sylvain's voice, making an ostentatiously cheerful reappearance. "Can you _believe_ the odds? Here I am, comforting a pretty girl when along came an apologetic-looking prince! What a remarkable coincidence! I'll just take my leave, I promised Dorothea I'd save her a seat at the dining hall--!!"

His jaunty whistling was soon to fade away, leaving only silence. And only Bernadetta, she hoped, but Dimitri apparently thrived on destroying her frail desires of solitude because he spoke her name once more. And--

"I'd... I'd like to explain myself. Will you open the door?"

"No," Bernadetta said automatically, because the prince delicately navigating his hatred of her shortcomings was one thing, but she hadn't had the motivation to change out of her nightclothes or even maneuver a brush through her hair. Even Dorothea had confided that she didn't step a foot outside until her makeup had been meticulously applied and her hair brushed through six times.

"Oh," Dimitri returned, sounding courteously despondent. "I-I see. Then, please permit me to tell you from here that I do not hate you and I harbored no intentions of making you feel... as though I might be trying to avoid you. When you were struck during the mock-battle, I... briefly lost myself to my anger. But I realized that same night that my frustration ought to have been directed more at myself than Caspar-- though I _will_ say that I have been stressing upon him the importance of maintaining clear thoughts in _any_ fight."

Wait. "W-wait." Bernadetta drew in a slow breath through her nose, walking closer to her door. "You were-- mad at yourself? _Why?_"

Dimitri sighed. "Had I not chosen to engage Edelgard, I would have reached Caspar first. Even if I had not, perhaps if I had possessed a weapon with greater range, I could have prevented him from injuring your face so grievously. As such, I have been training with the professor for these last two weeks to improve my grasp of weaponry that I have less proficiency in. That way, such negligence on my part will not occur again... and I asked Gilbert to train you, as I did not deem myself sufficient enough to teach you after you were injured so close to me. But I see now that in my eagerness to learn and improve, I have ostracized the very person I wished to protect in the first place."

"You..." She was having a hard time grasping his logic, the quiet way his words dragged at his voice, like he was truly ashamed of himself. But she'd never thought Dimitri would hold himself accountable for Caspar's exaggerated enthusiasm. "You were just trying to improve yourself... for me?"

"You are more than capable of standing your ground, far more apt with a bow than I, swift and sure," Dimitri said at once. "My choice to train in no way cheapens your skills or your valuable place on the battlefield with us. It is my own failings and mine alone that I cannot abide seeing my friend injured. It just... invokes such _frustration_ within me. As though I should have been able to prevent it, if I had _just_ been better. But I should have spoken with you and for that, I must--"

Bernadetta cleared her throat loudly, deliberately and felt like an idiot. "I should have... talked to you too. And you honestly keep apologizing to me almost every time we talk, so... either we're both going to have to be sorry this time, or you're going to have to just not say it. More, I mean."

There was a soft murmur on the other side, something she couldn't make out. "I'll make an attempt," Dimitri promised, his tone lightening just a bit. "If I might see you in class tomorrow... and if there's anything you _ever_ wish to discuss with me, please know I'll always be willing to listen."

Bernadetta glanced down at her hands, then up at the door that stood between them, and finally closed her eyes with a tired smile.

"I'll make an attempt."

(She did, though her legs shook with apprehension until Dimitri met her in front of the classroom to walk in with her.

Sylvain shot them both a grin, prompting Dorothea to skeptically frown and Bernadetta decided that, if nothing else, maybe she could tell her friend that he wasn't _as_ terrible after all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Fire Emblem, for making me scramble for a way to make the mock-battle less lethal-looking than the game does... 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who's been reading and/or commenting, your support means the world to me! Next up, a (maybe) shorter chapter regarding Remire and Dimitri's reaction to it.


	6. Remire Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri struggles. Bernadetta reaches out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo boy, did I struggle with this chapter! But here it is, thank you for the wait!
> 
> (I may have just put The Dark Colossus- Kaiju ver. from Nier Automata on repeat to get through part of this, and I regret nothing.)

Never had Dimitri felt more relieved to tread onto the training grounds and to have someone's excuse for being awake, dressed, and itching for a spar to be a refreshingly simple "I just wanted to start the day off right!"

It was, he was beginning to suspect, simply how Caspar was all the time: unfazed by troubles, by grief that spanned nearly half a decade, by shrouds of dreams that still clung in shivering webs even after awakening. With Caspar, he did not have to offer concern or a silent grip to a slumped shoulder, or wonder if he might lash out if he so much as greeted him, like Felix. With Caspar, Dimitri could slam his practice lance against his classmate's axe, the voices temporarily assuaged that he was acknowledging their pleas for vengeance by strengthening himself, for of course they were right to deprive him of peaceful somnolence. What right had he to sleep when they had died choking on their blood, twitching and writhing, broken? They could not rest, and neither would he.

With mentions of a troublesome sickness afflicting the citizens of Remire and what was apparently to be yet another day of no actions taken beyond waiting for additional news, Caspar had met him on the sands of combat yet again, while Dedue (always present, no matter the time) busied himself in the kitchen.

"You know," Caspar began, after Dimitri had once again flung him back from his wide strike, "you'd be surprised at just how many people are up this early. Petra really throws herself into her fights first thing, Hubert kind of _exists_ off scaring people and fluttering over Edelgard, so I've _never_ seen him yawn, and-- well, if Ferdinand wasn't so into the idea of getting enough sleep to be refreshed and noble-looking, I bet he'd wake up in the middle of the night just to say he beat Edelgard at something. Oh, and Bernadetta too, I've seen her before sunrise."

"Bernadetta," Dimitri parroted, puzzled. "She emerges at unusual hours?" Of course, her being out and about at times other people might not choose to wander had been something he'd witnessed himself, the first time he had ever truly interacted with her. But that had been just a few hours into the night, at an acceptable enough time that he hadn't found it _too_ strange.

Caspar's countenance, normally sunny and open, clouded over, a more solemn frown looking completely out of place on him. "Sometimes, yeah. I've seen her going to the greenhouse, something about how the plants don't yell at her or hit her."

That... was a very specific condition. The _plants_ did not raise any sort of voice or cause her harm, but someone had. 

If there was anything Dimitri could understand, it was that easily provoked terror and a strong desire for seclusion like Bernadetta's tended to have roots. Roots that burrowed deep, clung tenaciously, and curled in cruel tangles that might not ever loosen. And those roots came with weeds that shrank and withered at times, but always... _always_ came back. Without fail.

"Anyway," Caspar said genially, his expression clearing to his typical determined grin, "I'm ready to knock you on your rear, Dimitri! Get ready to eat dirt for breakfast!"

Dislodging his concerned thoughts for the time being with a toss of his head, Dimitri smirked. "I prefer something a little more savory for my meals, so I must graciously decline."

The spar continued as usual, the day dawned with a layer of frost that made Dorothea groan as she and Bernadetta scampered shivering into the dining hall, and before midday, the order came from their professor to make for Remire with all haste.

* * *

The conscientious part of him - the princely part, the part that suppressed and smiled and _smiled_ and _suppressed_ \- whispered reminders of what needed to be done after this. Apologize to the professor. Apologize to his classmates, those who would accept it (Felix would not, Dedue would claim that the harsh, condemning words he'd uttered deserved only unwavering agreement); Dorothea had murmured something to Ingrid, Mercedes rested a hand on Annette's taut shoulder, Caspar had justice-filled fury etched into his scowl, Bernadetta...

Bernadetta had looked at him, timid but resolute, but he could not place the emotion that shadowed her eyes. All the more reason to speak with her later.

But not now. Not _now_, when the whispering of what was right and just was brutally overpowered the screams. The horror of villagers struggling against familiar faces, the mangled growls of those who had changed, their laughter like the shrieking wails of some otherworldly monster. And-- ah. Yes, of course. Through the acrid stench of flames, the blood thick in the air, his father choking out his final words. Avenge. He needed to avenge the people. Only him. He _had_ to. He must push forward, trample the tormentors--

The smiling Solon and those clad in dark armor near him--

_I will find who did this and bring about justice--_

Squeeze that brittle-looking neck--

_Glenn, you perished in agony, tormented. I will shed the blood you seek so that you may finally rest--_

No, protect the villagers, apply restraint to those who attacked mindlessly, he could not simply charge ahead--

_Avenge them!!_

Dimitri fought though the crimson agony that pounded behind his eyes, only dimly aware of those around him, a depraved sort of delight lending new strength to his body when there was no one he had to defend, when the enemy stood before him and he could finally slam his sword into the minuscule gaps that dark armor could not protect and twist and _obliterate_.

The mysterious knight fell, and the voices rose in triumph.

Smoke sat heavy on his tongue when he inhaled, the last taste he had ever experienced. The axe he plucked so easily from the pile of refuse he refused to acknowledge as human plunged into the back of the mage next, discarded there in undeserving flesh.

Solon, he would kill him next, the appropriate punishment for his crimes, dragging his lance down between his eyes so that he too would know what it was like to be ripped apart violently.

_Like so many, on that day--_

And still, the screaming.

_Victims of the flames, begging for help--_

Dimitri would make him pay.

_Father, Stepmother, everyone--_

"Your Highness."

Dedue. Dedue was here. The bodies of family and friends, trusted soldiers and seasoned knights-- the memories, forced to be acknowledged as merely that, curled themselves up and receded enough for Dimitri to focus on a burning village where he stood, no longer the sole survivor. 

Solon was gone, chased back by Byleth and Dorothea's combined attack and disappearing with a dismissive chuckle. Dimitri stared at the spot where he'd stood, then drew in a breath that was less calming than he could have hoped for and let his gaze sweep over the expanse of what was once a village. The Death Knight had withdrawn as well, though not without leaving his mark.

Ashe helped Ingrid off her pegasus, her face drawn tight with a pain she stubbornly did not otherwise express as blood dripped down one arm and her lance lay broken near her steed's hooves. Felix looked equally exhausted and willing to be just as obstinate about it, hands covered in darkening burns that Mercedes rushed to address. Annette and Flayn were assisting the Church soldiers who had accompanied them, ushering the scared and shaking villagers to the battalion of clerics who awaited them near the entrance of Remire. Sylvain and Caspar were hauling buckets of water in what really might have been a futile effort by now to salvage some of the burning cottages.

Dedue's gaze, as stoic as ever, betrayed nothing, but the hard set of his jaw told Dimitri all that he needed to know. He was also remembering loss, but he also refused to concede to it. An act of strength that Dimitri could not additionally claim, to his shame, and he looked away from his retainer.

"I... will survey the village," he announced, hating the heaviness in his voice. The self-loathing only sank deeper when Dedue's eyes softened in understanding. "There may still be some survivors."

"Very well, Your Highness." Dedue said nothing further and Dimitri's throat ached with gratitude as he hurried towards one of the homes. 

As he helped a limping villager to lean against him, to weep softly into his shoulder at how her peaceful life had been so irreparably fragmented, Dimitri caught sight of Bernadetta. She'd dismounted from her horse, cradling a little boy who bore far too many bruises, clothes singed and scorched, but lungs still powerful enough to wail for his parents. To beg for answers as to why his father had wanted to hurt him.

Amidst the storm of sobbing, Dimitri couldn't hear Bernadetta's soft reply, but as she bowed her head over the child's, their eyes met. No tears, to Dimitri's surprise. But again, that emotion that he could not yet place, and she had turned away to pass the boy to a soldier before he could speak with her.

Now was not the time, he reminded himself.

_You've let another catastrophe happen,_ his father murmured, low and accusatory, and Dimitri had to fight not to let his fingers tighten on the villager's arm as he led her to safety.

* * *

Every footstep prompted a harmonizing throb of his skull and Dimitri swallowed a groan. He did not regret apologizing to the teacher after they had returned. Explaining his reaction did not bring him shame. But Byleth was surprised by very little, had never flinched or viewed him with dread. If Dimitri could avoid the next conversation he needed to have, he would have-- or at least he would have waited until tomorrow, as he would with the rest of the Blue Lions. While he knew sleep would once again elude him, it was better to let the others rest. The hour was late.

But, as he'd come to understand with Bernadetta, she was someone best sought out immediately, or she would engulf herself in a frightened misery she did not deserve.

She hadn't answered his knock on her door and, prompted by a comment made by Caspar, he now approached the greenhouse, breathing in the aroma of rich earth and fragrant petals as he scanned the area for a small figure hidden among the broad leaves and the bright blooms.

It took some walking, but there she was, crouched in front of... 

"Might those be carnivorous plants?"

Perhaps it was silly to feel victorious when her shoulders only tensed, when he knew that Bernadetta's reaction to any interruption was usually much more... dramatic. That she didn't scream or jump or toppled over face-first into the plants he'd just noticed was either a promising sign that she knew his voice and attributed it to something normal for her-- or that her thoughts were elsewhere.

It was hard to say which was the truth when she straightened up, brushing off her skirt. Bernadetta looked exhausted, but as she motioned to the plants, something lightened in her demeanor.

"Yeah, um... they're pitcher plants. People don't really come to admire _them_ here, so when I come, I always try to give them a little extra attention. I just think carnivorous plants are honestly amazing."

"Is that so," Dimitri mused, and then instantly felt like a fool. He knew nothing about those types of plants, and he couldn't quite call them _beautiful_ like most other plants in the greenhouse. Sylvain had insisted that girls liked pretty flowers, anyway, like roses and lilies and daffodils. What was he supposed to-- "I, ah... suppose they're quite self-sufficient, are they not?"

Bernadetta nodded, bright-eyed. "And they don't even have to _move_," she stated, clasping her hands to her chest rapturously. "_Incredible._"

There was something heartwarming about seeing her so enamored with such... unique plants, but as his head twinged, Dimitri reminded himself that he had other matters to speak with her about.

"Bernadetta, listen," he began, and his chest tightened when she looked at him with inquisitive interest, uncomprehending. "About earlier, in Remire-- you may have... no, you surely must have taken notice of how deplorable my behavior was."

Dimitri watched as realization flashed across her face and her smile faded, her hands untangling themselves from each other only to curl and tug at her skirt. "You... looked haunted," she said softly. "Like you were in pain. Like you were seeing..."

"... Something else," he finished for her, when Bernadetta trailed off. "I'm not certain how much of this reached the Empire, but are you aware of the Tragedy of Duscur?"

Bernadetta nodded, almost guiltily. "I didn't learn much, and I... didn't think to ask at the time, but I heard how the royal family was killed in a rebellion. D... Dedue told me more about it when we had weeding duty, about how many people died. How you saved him. And how you were the only Faerghus survivor."

His stepmother laughed, broken and furious, and Dimitri swallowed hard. "That's... correct. Four years ago... the flames were blinding, the screams of the people all around me, and I could do nothing. When I saw the chaos of Remire village, it all..." The damnable lump in his throat was still there, immovable, thickening his words, choking him. Like the smoke and his grief had that day. "It all... came back, and I could neither see nor hear what was truly in front of me. I..."

The screaming, again. The greenhouse was always humid, but now that heat felt as though it was trying to wrap around him and suffocate him, and he knew it to be sweat beading on his forehead, but he could practically smell the blood from the head wound he bore when he'd staggered to his feet and watched the knight protecting him crumple. The pain was welling up again, pressing against his skull, and that lump continued to swell and burn in his throat that he felt as though he might be sick or perhaps faint, with how little air he could draw despite his progressively frantic attempts for breath--

The soft touch and brush against his face was such a startling contrast to the violence of his memories that Dimitri jolted, eyes flying open (and when had he squeezed them shut, he wondered) to be faced with Bernadetta's tear-filled eyes, her palms cupping his cheeks.

So shocking was this sight that Dimitri could not immediately find the words to soothe her, to apologize for distressing her so grievously, as no proper prince should ever cause a lady.

But Bernadetta spoke first, in a whisper.

"Breathe, Dimitri."

It might have been a simple suggestion, almost laughable. But it was only when she said it that he could hear his own tattered, heaving breaths, so out of sync with the steady rise and fall of her chest when he glanced down. Dimitri shuddered, winced, and felt her fingertips tremble ever-so-lightly against his skin.

But she didn't move, not even when he reached up to hook his fingers over hers, his palms dwarfing the backs of her hands to anchor them there. To cling, selfishly. He should have apologized. He _wanted_ to apologize. But Bernadetta's eyes were so soft and pained, the emotion from earlier present with every teary blink. Ah, he knew it now.

Empathy.

He did not apologize. He did not try to continue speaking.

Dimitri simply breathed with her, again and again, until their quiet exhalations were the only sounds left in the greenhouse. Until the voices subsided, for now.

He did not deserve this, any of it. Dimitri knew that.

But Bernadetta did not look away, nor did she move her hands, and he gripped and clung and felt inexplicably like he was somehow falling regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, all of my gratitude to anyone who reads and/or comments! I never thought I'd get this many kudos, and it's super heartwarming.
> 
> Next up, herons and balls.


	7. The Direction of Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inexplicably, Bernadetta is chosen to represent the Blue Lions at the White Heron Cup. Even more inexplicably, Dimitri is oddly eager to help with practicing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, my sincerest apologies that this took so long!! A lot kind of happened at once and I've got some time-sensitive writing projects lined up, so things will probably slow down on my end. Going forward, though, I'll be aiming to update this at least once a week.
> 
> Also the chapter got way too long and I had to split it for sanity's sake, so the ball will be taking place in the next chapter instead. Thanks so much for those still reading and for anyone new to this work!

Bernadetta had stopped looking forward to her birthday after she had turned eleven-- though, if she were forced to be accurate, she had never really looked forward to her birthday. She had acknowledged it as the day she had been born, that special day that she got to spend in the garden with her uncle with a cup of Albinean Berry tea (liberally sweetened with cream and sugar at the time) and a slice of strawberry cake that he unfailingly procured from the nearby market. She would then spend the evening by her mother, learning to embroider and so focused on picking out the thread colors to represent dusk that she missed her father's low murmurs of how she was "nearly of age to begin her training."

After that, it was more of a dreaded reminder that she was one year closer to being shackled to someone's side: the last expectation her father still demanded of her.

But this year, surprisingly, Dorothea and Petra had gifted her with an adorable hair clip with a purple ribbon and a set of earrings that the songstress had made her _promise_ to wear once she was brave enough to pierce her ears. Not only that, but Byleth had presented her with a bouquet of freshly picked red and white blooms to brighten her room. The professor had then treated her to tea and despite Byleth's uncanny talent of having selected her favorite tea, fragrant with flavorful berries, Bernadetta had succeeded in setting aside her teacher's peculiar _knowing_ and enjoyed the brief time spent together.

Of course, not more than two hours later when she was blissfully enclosed in her room and methodically working on Dimitri's birthday present (Dedue had mentioned the date to her personally, strangely enough), Byleth had knocked on her door and announced that Bernadetta was the representative for the Blue Lion House for something known as the White Heron Cup.

Two seconds later, she learned it was a _dancing_ competition.

Five seconds later, she received even more alarming news that this competition was to be held in _four days._

One day later, she was slumped on the lower step right outside of her room as Dorothea recounted Bernadetta's plight with great dramatic nuance to a patiently listening Petra-- while working with the princess on her footwork for the upcoming ball.

"And thus, with great _woe_, Bern the Bewildered took on the mantle of responsibility," Dorothea finished, dipping Petra-- who arched all the way back to let her palms touch the grass, prompting a bemused laugh as the other girl struggled to hold her up by her waist. "Um, Petra dear-- I'm not asking you to engage in acrobatics, it's a part of the dance."

"My apologies," Petra said instantly, and pushed herself back up to a proper and upright position. Then, as though she _hadn't_ just done that, she continued with a concerned glance in Bernadetta's direction. "This... mantle, was it perhaps too heavy to wear today?"

"Responsibility isn't something you can shed that easily, but that was my fault for the wording." Dorothea's smile was no less endeared. "But you needn't look so glum, Bern! I know Professor Byleth would be delighted to give you a lesson--"

Bernadetta was already flinging her head from side to side with such vigor that Dorothea instantly tsked and released her hold on her dance partner to sink down in front of her and fingercomb her hair into some semblance of order. "Ohhhhh no. Not _this_ time. The professor already lowered my guard with that tea party on my birthday. I can't handle another betrayal again. W-what if next time, I turn my back during a spin and-- a knife! Or-- well, a sword, more likely, but either way, I'm not interested in a dance of death!!"

Petra tugged at the tip of her braid, a toneless hum emerging. "A dance of death would be more suiting of Hubert... but I do discover it strange."

"Mercenaries are probably great at dancing people to death," Bernadetta muttered rebelliously. "It's not _that_ strange."

Petra's frown only grew. "No, not that... you say the professor chose you, but I had been thinking that the professor had first talked to Dimitri. In the Knight's Hall."

"_Oh?_" Only Dorothea could make a single syllable carry seven different meanings, and although Bernadetta could only immediately pick out three of them, she knew that the intrigue in her tone was of a more pointed nature. "How interesting. I can't say I remember our golden prince mentioning _that_."

"Well, he _did_ say he was begging--"

"Pardon me," said the current topic of discussion, making his presence known as he strode towards them. Bernadetta had long since adjusted to Dimitri approaching without much warning, though the way he'd made sure to enter her vision first instead of speaking up from behind her like the first few times hadn't escaped her notice. "Bernadetta, might I have a word with you? Privately?"

The prince looked... strained. No, more than that, there was _guilt_ in that intense azure gaze of his, and from the sudden stillness of Dorothea's fingers in Bernadetta's hair-- she wasn't the only one who had pinpointed it.

Sure enough, Dorothea's smile took on an almost predatory tint as she rose-- not quite the expression she took on when agreeing to a date with one of the knights, but that same devilish quirk of the lips that she gave to Sylvain when she was about ten seconds away from _denying_ him a romantic encounter.

"You're looking rather _furtive_, Your Highness. Is it truly so important that it can't be discussed in front of us? And does that also happen to include Tall, Dark and Handsome over there?"

Dedue, once again standing a respectful but protective distance behind Dimitri, did not so much as blink. "I would prefer you not call me that."

"I-- it--" Dimitri fumbled, uncharacteristically, and to Bernadetta, who knew what panic looked like, felt like, and practically _tasted_ like-- it was more than a little concerning to see the prince of Faerghus radiating it so intensely. "Yes, of course Dedue would remain behind for this conversation. I need only a moment and... you have my word, I _will_ be brief. So, Bernadetta--"

Dorothea was still maintaining a scarily steady stare, while Petra was looking between her friend and the Blue Lions' leader, eyes narrowed in consideration. Bernadetta prayed to the Goddess for courage, or at least enough of it to last twelve seconds.

"I-it's fine," she finally spoke up, joining Dorothea in standing-- though she did so nowhere near as decisively. "If it's brief, I don't think that's enough time to strangle me and leave my body in a bush, so--"

Dimitri made a desperate raspy noise in his throat that sounded like a very alarmed laugh and turned quickly, cape flaring out a bit behind him as he gestured for Bernadetta to accompany him. With only a glance of what she hoped was assuring to her friends, she followed until he'd led her to the shadowed side of the building and leaned heavily against the wall. Even then, his posture was impeccable.

"I..." Dimitri began, hesitantly. "I do not know where to even begin with my apologies, but... I believe in my desperation to avoid being named the White Heron representative, I had... unwittingly suggested that the role be better suited to someone who could have flourished with increased confidence."

Bernadetta took a moment to let that sink in, the little bits and pieces and crooked puzzle bits finally linking together. Petra, having seen Byleth speaking to Dimitri. Byleth, personally seeking her out to make her the representative. Dimitri and the guilt marring his dignified visage.

"I should have known." That guilt was only spreading more and more across his face by the second, a sight that Bernadetta found as fascinating as watching the clouds chase each other across the sky at sunset. "But I didn't suspect until it was much too late, and you must certainly feel as though I've condemned you to humiliation, but I assure you, such intentions never crossed my mind!"

Bernadetta couldn't really find the words to agree that yes, she did actually feel pretty darn condemned at the moment, but something on her face must have told Dimitri how she felt about it, because he hurriedly spoke again, a little louder.

"I... can promise you very little, but if you would have me, I can... offer what dancing lessons I still retain from my youth. Of course, you yourself are a noble, Bernadetta, so my assistance may be entirely insignificant--"

It was an awkwardly-worded lifeline, but a lifeline nonetheless. If she fled from the contest now, she'd be even more the subject of ridicule and disdain. She might as well _try_ to stand a chance, and if that meant taking Dimitri's offer, at least he was a friend. A friend who wanted to help her dance so she could be incrementally less humiliated in three more days.

"Tell Linhardt he can have my pillow if I die," Bernadetta said bravely, one hand pressed to her chest. "It's lavender-scented."

"I don't believe dancing with me will rob you of your life," Dimitri sighed, but it was said with a softer, relieved smile, and followed by a short laugh. "If it robs you of your breath, however, perhaps Sylvain will deem me sufficient enough to stop offering other problematic life lessons."

Bernadetta briefly considered offering to speak with Dorothea so she could act as gorgeous and glamorous intervention to Sylvain on Dimitri's behalf, but given her friend's initial annoyance and the fact that she had to survive a dance competition first that she'd never even wanted to join--

The offer remained unspoken, and she echoed Dimitri's sigh. "A-all right... let's just get this over with."

* * *

Two days of being coached through dance steps was, as Bernadetta put it succinctly and frequently, "a unique kind of torment."

Contrary to her (irrational, she could reluctantly admit by now) expectations, Dimitri was a patient instructor, showing her the steps without laying a finger on her and never scolding her when Bernadetta faltered, didn't turn in time, or didn't keep her arms in the proper position. He simply corrected her, gently and always with the addendum that he didn't think any less of her for it, and they'd begin again.

He _had_ offered to dance with her, to show her what it was meant to feel like, but Bernadetta had swiftly refused, citing a horde of nameless female students (and Dorothea, maybe, if Dimitri's earlier mistake hadn't damned him for marriage with her) that would surely be aggravated by such a thing.

"You'll be one of the one of the most sought-after people at the ball, anyway," she'd reminded him. "You'll have all the dancing you could ever want there, right?"

Dimitri had grimaced, then gestured for her to bend at the side, a dip. "I wouldn't say I'm _languishing_ for such a fate, no. But my duty demands it. At least with you, it would be..."

But he'd stopped there, and Bernadetta couldn't bring herself to ask what he'd meant to say. Whatever it was, he'd decided to keep it to himself, and she didn't think she had the right to convince him to do otherwise.

Now... here they were, the sun beginning its gradual creep towards the horizon and Bernadetta thinking longingly of thick, fluffy blankets once the temporary warmth of exertion inevitably faded. This was their last practice with Dimitri's solemn word that he wouldn't be trying to force her into perfecting her footwork the actual day of the competition.

"Bernadetta," Dimitri said at length, as she straightened up to peer at him. "This isn't necessarily about your skill or the competition, so you needn't feel as though you need to answer me. But I've been wondering about something."

Dimitri was still the only person she knew who broached topics so delicately instead of just outright asking or assuming-- but then again, he'd been the recipient of more than one of her alarmed reactions.

She would have liked to say it was the soft glow of friendship that prompted her answer, though half of it really might have just been guilt for how careful he was with her. "Um... sure? If you want to ask me something, fire away."

"Thank you." His smile was subdued, relieved. "I'd never thought to inquire about the difference in noble upbringing, but I was... perhaps mistakenly under the impression that all Adrestian nobles were educated in the art of dancing. However..."

"... You're wondering why you had to teach me all the way from the basics," Bernadetta finished for him, and knew she was right when he sheepishly met her eyes. When she thought about it, there really wasn't a reason why she _couldn't_ tell him. She'd known Dimitri for months now, fought alongside him, whined at his unsympathetic grin when he gently guided her to the training grounds for more lance practice, worked with him at his sewing when Mercedes was busy with her sixth task out of eleven for the day.

She'd told the professor. Dorothea. Sylvain seemed to have pieced it together behind the playful lilt of his smile. This was no different. Almost like telling a story at this point.

And so she told him. The story of a count who had desired status, privilege, benefits-- and how he had tirelessly sought to "educate" his Crest-bearing daughter and to make her into the kind of subservient, docile and doe-eyed wife any rich and powerful noble would have thrown their wealth at for a lifetime of such a thing. How he made her take tiny, mincing steps by tying her ankles together and forcing her to traverse the halls. How he bound her to a chair and left her for hours at a time, bidding her to remain silent, as the perfect wife was not meant to be heard. How he had a vicious temper. How he had sought to separate her from anyone not fit to be seen socializing with nobility. How he had played a part in her one and only childhood friend, a commoner, beaten and left half-dead when he had been discovered. How he had said time and time again that it was to bring prosperity to Varley.

How the daughter had failed. Time and time again, eventually too afraid to step outside of her room for fear of what awaited her, thrashing and screaming when the servants would come to prepare her for social functions. Bruised arms and shoulders, a reddened knot only half-hidden by her messy bangs, knowing that her father would not dare present her when she bore signs of injury that he could not disguise. It would only bring him disgrace.

Bernadetta had never learned to dance, or how to engage in polite conversation, the six different ways to use a fan to convey interest, the measured and assured stride when taking a gentleman's arm and walking with him. Courtship. 

She could sew, certainly. Her mother had seen to that, and she'd taken to it, an activity that she could do while huddled in the corner of her room. But as a potential bride, she held no additional merit, and her father had given up and disregarded her entirely.

"And that's why you've had to go so far to teach me," Bernadetta concluded, repentantly. "I'm sorry about that. It was probably a waste of your time, and--"

Dimitri's hand, fingers curled around her wrist, made her pause. The look on his face, a mixture of appalled realization and a bright, blazing anger, made her forget the rest of her sentence.

"Despicable," he breathed. "That your own _father_ would use you-- treat you as though you were only a means to an end. A _gain._ A man who cannot even treasure his own daughter should not govern _anything._ And you, having to endure all of that... I see now why you preferred to remain hidden away. Why you thought that so many people meant you harm. You deserve so much more than that, Bernadetta."

Bernadetta counted eight seconds that she stared at him, helpless under the furious blue of his eyes and completely awed that, for as livid as he looked, the way he grasped her wrist was almost impossibly gentle.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, knowing that was the wrong thing to say but at a loss when it came to finding the _right_ words over the painfully familiar.

Dimitri instantly shook his head, his eyebrows tightly pulled together. "My only regret when it comes to you is that you are not a citizen of the Kingdom. Had you been, I would have ensured that your father had no additional part in your life. I'm afraid that all I can offer you now is my support. And my assurance that you have nothing to apologize for. I cannot make your past any less painful for you, but the present and the future... I hope to continue to cherish our friendship."

She had known, by now, that Dimitri was kind. That he was protective. That he held painful memories of loss, far worse than hers, and yet here he was, practically seething over her upbringing.

The words came easier now, brought into existence by the way his thumb brushed soothingly over the pulse timidly fluttering in her wrist. Impossibly warm. So terribly comforting. She didn't think she deserved it, but--

"Thank you." Bernadetta said it anyway, slipping it into the tense space between them, and so scared of how Dimitri instantly went still but nudging the rest of her words out anyway. "I-- me too. I want to cherish it, too. What we have."

"It will only grow stronger," Dimitri reassured her, glancing down at their hands almost thoughtfully before releasing her. "Just as you, Bernadetta, grow stronger each time we cross paths. For now, shall we call it a day?"

"_Please_," she agreed, with such eager relief as she shook out one aching foot that his laugh sounded half-surprised.

* * *

For all of Bernadetta's efforts and the time Dimitri had spent with her, for all that she struggled against her own self-deprecating knowledge that she would never be good enough to win a _thing_, Alois still pronounced Ferdinand (von Aegir, of course) of the Black Eagle House the winner of the White Heron Cup. 

Hilda, the other competitor, had bounded off into the crowd almost immediately after the declaration, and Bernadetta swayed where she stood, unable to place the exact state of her emotions in that moment. Was she grateful that it was done and she was no longer the subject of everyone's stares? Was she disappointed that she had failed, even after doing her best? Was she feeling ill? Is that why she suddenly felt as though she absolutely had to get out of the hall, or was she that afraid of looking further into the throng of students to find Dimitri and to witness his regret for his wasted time?

_Breathe, Bernie._

She needed to run, or at least walk quickly and stealthily away; no matter the emotion, Bernadetta knew with finality that she didn't want to experience it _here._

That was, of course, her plan of action until Ferdinand von Aegir stepped into her field of vision, flushed a giddy shade of pink with his success but offering her that same gentle smile he'd shown her once before, when they'd actually _talked_ to each other.

"Bernadetta," he began brightly, and she cringed. "I must admit, I did not expect to be facing _you_ in such a noble competition! I beg your forgiveness for disregarding your lineage for even a moment. As a noble, you behaved most excellently. Your form was charming. Alas, as the one who will surpass Edelgard herself, I could do nothing but my best and seize the victory. But-- had I _not_ been the one selected to compete, I am certain the prize would have been yours."

At the thought that she really _might_ turn out to be Ferdinand's eternal rival, against her own wishes, Bernadetta eased a foot back. "T-thank you, but that's-- it's all right, I'm probably not gonna ever dance again, so--"

Ferdinand frowned, blessedly too euphoric over his win to show her concern. It was the last thing she wanted right now. "That would truly be a shame. Why, if you were to honor me with a dance at the ball, we would be certain to crush any partner Edelgard chose! Of course, I could do as much on my own, and she would have no choice but to capitulate upon seeing my fluttering across the floor like a gallant swan, but--"

Whatever else he was saying, she didn't hear it. Lorenz was on his way over to captivate him instead, and Bernadetta wasted no time in fleeing.

With everyone still chatting and cheering in the hall, it was easy enough to breathe in the chill of the air, cold enough to make her lungs ache just slightly more than her heart. Which she preferred, really. Maybe that would make her want to cry a little less.

Or so she hoped, but that was before she made for the stairs by the greenhouse, hoping to return to her room without fuss, and saw Dimitri standing at the top of them.

The sight took her back, abruptly. Her father, standing at the top of the stairs, a foreboding glare darkening his face. Never saying anything, only waiting, knowing she had to ascend the stairs. She couldn't run. She would face his anger and she would come to him herself, for she had no other choice. And the longer she waited, fought to catch her breath and force her feet to move, the more terrible that anger would be.

She couldn't see Dimitri's face in the growing darkness of the evening, but before Bernadetta could force herself up the stairs, he moved towards her. Slow but unerring, one step per stair, Dimitri descended until he stood in front of her.

And then, just as deliberately, the prince brought one arm in front of him in a perfect, sweeping bow and only straightened to extend his hand to her.

Bernadetta could do nothing but stare in response. She recognized the gesture, of course. She'd seen it many times before, though never once intended for her-- and she quickly looked behind her, just to make sure that he wasn't offering to dance with some other girl who would have died and/or killed to get the opportunity to fall into the Faerghus heir's arms.

There was no one there. And still just Dimitri when she looked back at him, who was now close enough that she could see his smile. 

"I have no doubt that you would refuse me if I waited until the ball to ask you," he spoke quietly. "And you have been courageous enough to dance before so many eyes tonight-- beautifully, might I add. I'll not ask you to push yourself further. Then you may consider this my selfish request."

"What?" Bernadetta asked faintly, having been so prepared for anger or exasperation or disapproval that all of _this_ had thrown her completely off any kind of routine or defensive maneuvers.

Dimitri held his hand steady, eyes meeting hers. Even in the soft shadows of the night, that blue was arresting. "You were wonderful tonight, Bernadetta. So I must ask for a memory, to keep close during the time where _I_ must be the one to dance, time and time again. One dance, with the brave and talented girl I am honored to call my friend."

He was joking. He _had_ to be. But no matter how skeptically she stared at him, his posture didn't waver. Really, if they stood here _too_ long, the other students were going to start filtering out again and then everyone would see-- this. Them. And they'd get the wrong idea, and she would have to ask Petra to fly her over the seas of Brigid and drop her down into the water, weighed down by rocks sewn into her clothing.

Hurriedly, Bernadetta reached out to take Dimitri's hand, her other one automatically seeking his shoulder to grasp. Sure, she'd never actually danced with another person before, but the positioning and movements were still fresh in her mind, sure to haunt her for another ten years. "Y-you don't have to be so flowery about it, just--! Please just get it over with!"

"You make dancing with me sound like such a torturous ordeal." Dimitri sighed, but his other arm curved around her waist, his hand resting gently at his back when he swept them into the simple waltz he'd had her practicing. "Is it truly so terrible?"

_Yes,_ was the answer on her lips, because dancing meant having so much attention on you and that meant being that much more likely to mess up or look unappealing or demonstrate how easy it would be to murder you in the middle of the night.

But Dimitri was smiling down at her, guiding her through the steps with ease that didn't even _look_ practiced, and as Bernadetta let her thoughts drift just enough to remember him tearing his way furiously through a burning village, to the way he'd shook and shuddered and looked to be on the verge of falling apart beneath her palms, his anger on no one's behalf but hers only yesterday...

He didn't look as though he was shouldering negativity now. He'd requested this of her and she'd said yes, and he looked proud and pleased just _because_ she'd agreed, and something in her chest tightened and spun and trembled and it felt _bizarre_.

"No," Bernadetta finally murmured. "Not if it's like this."

Not if it was with him, but she didn't say that, only latched on more firmly to his shoulder when he playfully dipped her back a little and let a shy smile escape when he chuckled at her instinctive reaction.

That night, Bernadetta dreamed of trying to get too-tight ropes off of her ankles while Ferdinand pirouetted regally in circles around her. As she fought back tears of fear and frustration, struggling against her bonds-- Dimitri knelt in front of her, hooking his fingers into the barely-there space between the ropes and her feet, and snapped them with a single swift tug. Not once did he look away from her.

Bernadetta awoke, took a deep breath, and proceeded to scream into her pillow as the realization set in rapidly.

She was in trouble.


	8. Of Birthdays and Balls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which birthdays happen and balls happen and Bernadetta being bashful happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, a fool: Okay, updates once a week are doable!!  
Me, a fool who forgot she gets weather-triggered migraines just as the weather starts changing: fffffffffff
> 
> Which is to say, I completely forgot (or hoped for merciful days) that with the weather getting colder, I was going to suffer for it. So, fair warning, I can make no promises except to keep working on updating when I can but there will be days of debilitating head pain and it will knock me off-schedule. We will still get through this story!!!
> 
> Thank you everyone for your patience, all of your support means the world to me! Getting to 200 kudos is really an honor, thanks so much!!

Dimitri's birthday slid into place a week after the White Heron Cup, an event he would have paid no mind to, had the Blue Lions not been so insistent on drawing attention to it. He should have perhaps expected it when they'd given so much care to cheering up Bernadetta after her loss, with Felix mumbling that her form had improved, Annette and Mercedes seizing her by both wrists to march her off to a "tea therapy" session with a laughing Dorothea in tow, and Ashe offering to show her how to make pressed flower bookmarks.

Even Dedue had privately asked him if she might like to learn more about the violet Duscur flowers about to bloom, and Dimitri had reassured him that it was a considerate gesture. It had warmed him even further to watch his friend approach his much smaller friend, and to see Bernadetta trot after him without more than a second's hesitation, eyes bright with intrigue.

His classmates were caring and attentive, he knew that. And yet, Dimitri had inexplicably forgotten that such focus might soon be placed upon him. He deserved no joyous tidings, not when another year had passed with no one to answer to the demands of the dead. Even if his entire reason had been to find those responsible and present justice to the ghosts, those who could age no longer, trapped in their regrets and their hatred.

Such a thing wasn't easily explained to the others, not without causing them distress or disdain. So of course he'd walked into the Blue Lions classroom on his birthday, not having really _thought_ of it as such, and been greeted with a cake (courtesy of Mercedes with Annette clarifying that she'd helped, "_carefully!_"), some sort of savory egg and cheese dish through the joint efforts of Dedue and Ashe, a weapons polishing kit from his childhood friends ("Felix rejected three of them until we found one suitable enough," Ingrid confided, _much_ later and well out of earshot of the one mentioned).

Caspar had volunteered to spar with him for the whole day the next time they had a free day, Bernadetta had left her package tucked in and half-hidden among the rest of them, an elaborately embroidered piece of an azure lion roaring regally beneath the Blaiddyd Crest, and Dorothea had serenaded him with an operatic celebration three seconds after entering the room. Byleth had presented him with flowers and Dimitri had been so touched and embarrassed by all of the attention that the warmth in his face hadn't subsided until the lunch hour.

It was strange, he felt. With the ball creeping towards them, only five days away now, Dimitri could not quite shake the feeling of unease. As though he had forgotten something. His own birthday, yes, done so willingly... so that couldn't be it. Was there an exam he had neglected to study for? No, Dedue would have reminded him, seeing that as merely one of his many duties. A chore? But then he would have had an irritated classmate reminding him of such for failing to attend to it.

What, then? The pervading feeling was nowhere near as invasive as the whispering of his ghosts, but Dimitri tried to give it as much attention as he could allow. Still, no clarity followed his efforts.

Not until he'd gone to collect Dedue from the greenhouse for dinner and had found him kneeling in front of a patch of vivid violets, tending to them with the kind of delicacy that most would not have expected from him. It was unsurprising to Dimitri, after this long, but it made him smile nonetheless. The only other Blue Lion who was so fond of spending time here was--

The thought stirred, drifted through his mind like smoke, and brightened into a single flame of realization.

What he had overheard, when he had first sought out Bernadetta to apologize and make amends for so blindly and unknowingly volunteering her...

What he _should_ have remembered when his classmates had clustered around him to wish him another year of health and happiness...

"Dedue," Dimitri whispered, stricken. "I am a _fool._"

"You are not, Your Highness," Dedue said politely, likely accustomed to this because he told Dimitri as much at least once a week when a weapon was broken or he fell for one of Claude's claims or he unintentionally offended Ingrid or he accidentally promised yet another dance to yet _another_ young woman looking forward to traversing the dance floor with him in a matter of days.

Dimitri, of course, was determined to accept his faults, of which there were indeed many. And now was no different, even as he found himself beset with tormented thoughts that for once did not center around the charred bodies of soldiers and loved ones.

What should he _do?_ Bernadetta's birthday had since passed and she hadn't breathed a word of it to him. Would he be traipsing upon her unspoken wishes if he did something now? Would she consider it presumptuous? Goddess, even disregarding that, what would he even _gift_ her with? She was the creative one between the pair of them. She could sew, draw, cook (from what Ashe had told him, excitedly), paint (Linhardt's contribution, completely unprompted)... any attempt to do any of the following on his part would be laughable, at _best._

A less creative gift, perhaps. Something he could purchase. But jewelry might also be a bit too forward. He could _not_ consider giving her a weapon, because Sylvain would never let him hear the end of it after the dagger, though he privately though Bernadetta might benefit from additional encouragement when it came to forging her own path. A hair accessory, then? Or would she think he was making a statement about her tresses and imposing by demonstrating a preference?

He was second-guessing himself a bit too much, Dimitri realized, but couldn't conclude whether it was due to that cautious and jumpy nature of hers or if he was nervous for other reasons. Which was foolish, he'd done fine with his friends' birthdays before. Perhaps because Bernadetta was a different level of delicacy, but...

"Your Highness," Dedue spoke, a more questioning tone to it now. 

"Oh! Forgive me, Dedue, I was lost in thought." _Of my own failings._ Dimitri schooled his expression, determined not to worry his friend. "You see..."

He trailed off, eyes widening in sudden comprehension when his desperately drifting gaze landed on the flowers Dedue was tending to. Inspiration felt a bit like a heavy thump to the shoulder--

Ah, no, that was Dedue once again, now concerned enough by his liege's uncharacteristic pauses to actually... _look_ as such as he dropped a hand atop his shoulder.

Dimitri smiled at him, apologetically. "I'll let you return to your work. I need to speak with the keeper."

* * *

The days between then and the ball were a haze of classwork and preparations, Dimitri adding yet another task to his list of daily duties. Despite that already long list, he found it soothing to fill his time up completely so that he could not afford to focus on anything else beyond studying, all of his weapons training, and what awaited him on the night of the ball.

Like unavoidably aching feet after sixteen dances, not that he was counting. Dimitri knew his duty and smiled genially at each and every young lady who breathlessly gazed up at him throughout a graceful maneuver around the room. He just as carefully did not make eye contact with Edelgard, though as he caught her smiling vaguely at her current dance partner, Dimitri could not help but recall a more mulish and annoyed frown on her face when she'd taught _him._

That, however, had been years ago. They had both changed since then.

The seventeenth dance was with Mercedes, who had gently told him that she would bring him a little bundle of herbs to put in water later so that he could soak his feet and ease their soreness. A blessing from the goddess herself, his classmate, and Dimitri looked past her shoulder to find the rest of them.

Felix had, at least from what he'd noticed, only danced _once_ and that had been due to Annette towing him onto the floor with an iron grip and an undaunted smile. It was still one dance more than what Dimitri had expected him to concede to. Sylvain, in direct contrast, seemed to have a different partner every time he was spotted, which was less than surprising.

No, the actual surprise was that _Dorothea_ had deigned to grace him with a dance, though he'd also seen her with Caspar and, defiantly, Petra. Ingrid had patiently and fondly guided Ashe through more than one dance, though Dimitri had heard his stammered apologies every time they'd circled into each other's space and wondered if he ought to ask Mercedes to seek Ingrid out as well.

Mercedes herself had come from waltzing with Dedue, who was now oh-so-carefully letting Flayn lead him in broad circles while Seteth watched with all the wary sternness of an overprotective father, instead of a brother. Rather funny, really.

And that just left Bernadetta, who Dimitri _knew_ he'd seen because Annette and Dorothea had forcibly escorted her in with the rest of the class and she'd timorously protested the whole way. Perhaps she had sought to blend herself in with the crowd? Or, the more likely option, she'd found a way to escape while everyone else had been chattering with each other in some fashion.

Now was the best chance to catch her. Once he _found_ her, of course, and just as he was thinking this, Mercedes gave his shoulder a swift but gentle pat. 

"Your thoughts are somewhere else right now, aren't they?"

"Oh," Dimitri blurted out, instantly contrite. "I'm--"

Mercedes laughed, patting his shoulder again, and he felt irrationally like a child caught sneaking into the kitchens even after enjoying a full meal. "It's all right, Dimitri! If you have somewhere else you need to be, I think you have the best chance right now. Quickly now, before anyone else asks to dance with you-- I know there are others who'd like to."

The prince drew back, bowing over her hand with a grateful smile. When she tilted her head, this time a bit more impatiently, he chuckled and released her, turning on his heel to stride from the hall and out into the night air.

One thing at a time, he reminded himself, slipping past several pairs of students standing incredibly close to each other. He needed to stop by his room before seeking out Bernadetta. The night air was certainly chilly at this time, but not enough to make anyone from Faerghus truly uncomfortable. For Bernadetta, however, it probably meant that she had sought shelter indoors.

But she wasn't in her room when he knocked - belatedly, after a talk with the professor - nor could she be located in the greenhouse or the dining hall. She, most blessedly, was also not in the infirmary. Dimitri was beginning to rethink his certainty that she wasn't mingling with the other students, but his gaze drifted to the Goddess Tower and he allowed himself a sloppy shrug and a faint smile.

He couldn't say he'd searched for her diligently if he didn't check all possible locations, now could he?

With a silent prayer to the goddess that he wasn't about to walk in on any pairs forming fervent wishes, Dimitri slipped into the tower, keeping the item he'd retrieved earlier tucked behind his back. The goddess was feeling merciful, apparently, because while he encountered no one else among the moon-tinged shadows, he _did_ catch a short silhouette once he'd ascended enough.

Sure enough, Bernadetta was standing shakily in a corner, muttering to herself.

"What is going _on?_ I-I thought for sure that no one was going to come here, but that's the third couple I've had to hide from! Shouldn't they all still be dancing? Is this just a curse?? Bernie, you really should've just gone to your room!!"

He'd _wondered_, if she'd known what tonight meant. The excited talk that if a couple made a wish here, it would come true. Then again, Bernadetta had to socialize and engage in gossip and she was clearly not aware, from the bewildered tone her terror had taken.

"I'm glad you didn't," Dimitri spoke up, gentling his voice to something mild. Poor Bernadetta was already in a state, so perhaps it was a foolish attempt to speak at all, but he _did_ need to make her aware of his presence.

In a way, he succeeded. Just... not in the way he'd hoped, not when Bernadetta shrieked and scooted back swiftly, both hands thrust out in front of her and waved around so viciously he was half-concerned she'd snap a wrist.

"N-no! _Back!_ Get back, g-ghost that sounds and looks exactly like Dimitri!! I won't be swayed by your tricks! I was here first! I-- w-well, no, if you're a ghost, you probably were-- aaaah, it really _is_ a curse, isn't it?!"

Dimitri waited, until she'd taken several breaths and until she'd stared at him long enough that he could see the precise moment where reason overtook fear. When she finally lowered her hands, she wasn't the only one who slowly exhaled.

"D... Dimitri?" Bernadetta ventured, though not without some apprehension, and he smiled and finally took a step closer.

"In the flesh. I have not perished, and I certainly did not seek you out tonight to haunt you."

The ghosts stirred, and he knew he would have to apologize profusely for speaking so lightly of those who could no longer speak for themselves. But Bernadetta no longer looked as though she was going to faint on her feet, and Dimitri thought surely he could focus on that. Just for now. Just for tonight.

His much more diminutive friend studied him, mollified but not quite convinced. "Shouldn't... _you_ be dancing? Dorothea was saying you might be tied with Lady Edelgard for 'Most Desirable Dance Partner' or something like that. Why are you here?"

With no one around, no one to cater to and dip into a bow with the kind of smile that made his face feel stiff, Dimitri... snorted. "I believe I've done more than my fair share of dancing tonight, and I will be the first to admit to you that I vastly enjoyed the one we shared days earlier much more."

With the exception of his classmates, the girls he had danced with had never met his gaze, had performed with grace and perfect posture. Bernadetta's hand had been trembling, and she'd told him no less than five times that he was embarrassing and that surely the ground would open up to let her die, but she'd _chosen_ to take his hand when he'd extended it to her. Despite everything. Despite knowing more than most.

That had made it all the more important.

"And continuing along the line of 'earlier', I committed a grievous oversight that I wish to rectify," Dimitri continued, finally bringing the item out from behind his back. "As such... this is for you."

Even in the dim light of the stars and the moon smiling benevolently down at them, he could see the precise moment when her eyes widened. Recognition. Of course Bernadetta, the one who'd been so enamored with such plants, would know a carnivorous one when she saw it.

Still, like an idiot, Dimitri rushed to explain-- even as he held the dew-dappled plant in its proud red pot out to her.

"I-- as I'm certain you already know, the colloquial term is the king sundew. When an insect becomes trapped in the sticky dew-like substance it secretes, it is capable of bending and folding its leaves to surround it. Or so the greenhouse keeper was able to tell me. Of course, as I said, you are more informed about such things than I am, but I thought that... you might prefer to have a carnivorous plant of your own. As a belated birthday present."

"It's..." Bernadetta was so quiet, despite it only being the two of them, that Dimitri had to control his own (strangely loud) breathing, the way his heart pressed vigorously against his chest. "It's really... for me?"

It wasn't denial or stumbling down the stairs screaming at his gall, and Dimitri continued to offer the pot with an encouraging nod (or five) until she inched her fingers out and took it from him, cradling the plant close like it was as fragile and cherished as a newborn.

"I was told it will have vibrant flowers when it blooms," he spoke just as softly, not sure _why_ he needed to sound hushed, but attributing it to Bernadetta's sense of ease. "It does, however, mean that it will require plenty of sunlight, so you'll have to leave your room... perhaps more than you would prefer."

"I... I can do that!" It might have been more convincing if her voice hadn't wavered near the end of the exclamation, but to her credit, Bernadetta repeated it, a little stronger. "I-if it's not for _too_ long, and... y-you were the one to go out of your way to give it to me, so of course I'll have to come find you when it blooms so you can be the first one to see it."

Uncomfortably aware that his smile was well past the range of "encouraging" and helplessly sliding towards "idiotically wide" at her consideration, _especially_ knowing how cripplingly shy she was, Dimitri cleared his throat. "I'd be honored, Bernadetta. As for now, would you permit me to escort you back to your room? I'm certain you'd rather not be the subject of rumors if we were to be spotted here."

"Rumors?" As he'd thought, his friend only looked adorably confused-- no, Dimitri corrected himself, he shouldn't be thinking that the way her nose scrunched up and her mouth pursed was cute. She appeared to be genuinely puzzled, after all. "What kind of rumors? It really _is_ haunted, isn't it??"

"I can't answer that truthfully, not knowing such a thing myself. But no, I was referring to the legend that if a man and a woman make a wish in the Goddess Tower, it will come true."

"Oh." Bernadetta glanced down at the plant. Then, with a sense of dawning hope, "_Ohhh!_ So like if you helped me out and we wished for me to live in solitude foreve--"

"Your plant would suffer and your friends would miss you," Dimitri reminded her, deciding to end that particular train of thought before she lost herself to paroxysms of delight over the prospect of staying locked in her room. "My apologies, but your wish will have to take a different form if you'd like my support."

She mumbled something grumpily, about perhaps not making a wish at all, then peered up at him. "What about you, Dimitri? What would _you_ wish for?"

_Revenge._

_All I've sought is revenge, to let them rest, to let them be sated, to atone._

Looking down at her, so carefully framed in moonlight with her gaze so innocent and trusting, Dimitri nearly said it aloud. Because he could not afford to have her look at him like that, like he was someone worthy and good, and think for the slightest _second_ that perhaps he could be all that she thought she saw in him.

He could tell her and watch those lips tremble, her eyes cloud over, her shoulders hunch and her back curl to protect herself. He could watch her leave and know that it was for the best. She deserved better. He _should_ tell her.

But Dimitri did not, and hated himself a little more for wanting to hide who he truly was from her. Just a bit longer.

"If it was a wish we were making together... then perhaps that our paths continue to align. Even once we've graduated, I would still make time for a dear friend to visit Fhirdiad, if you were so inclined. There are many sights there that would make for a beautiful painting at your hands."

"Faerghus is cold," Bernadetta stated, matter-of-factly-- but not in a tone of sheer protest, which made Dimitri smile.

"That it is. You'd need to dress very warmly. But you have plenty of time to prepare."

The way she squeaked once again put the smile in peril of "idiotically wide". 

"I didn't-- I mean, I didn't say I'd--!"

"No? Then you _won't_ visit me?"

Bernadetta looked both indignant and flustered, much to Dimitri's fond amusement. "I didn't say that either, I... ugh, okay, _fine!_ I-I'll also wish that we stay close! Okay?! I-it doesn't mean I'll go freeze just to see you, but I'll-- I won't lock you out!"

"I very much appreciate that," Dimitri replied serenely, and offered his arm-- which she ignored, giving his back a light push as she tucked the plant into the crook of her arm and ushered him out of the tower with a thin plea to "stop laughing, already!"

A successful night, he would say.

* * *

Smiling felt like a hard-earned memory. It carried a tinge of guilt when he considered it, almost as though he shouldn't _allow_ himself to think back on it, not when the students of the monastery had been used as victims, twisted into misshapen monsters against their will and forced to mindlessly attack their fellows-- much like the Remire villagers. He could still recall the few survivors of that tragic incident, the little girl in the dining hall who had stared up at him with tired brown eyes and miserably uttered that they should have come sooner.

And just as cruel a blow upon his conscience, the professor's father and a man widely respected among the Knights of Seiros, Jeralt, cut down so unexpectedly and dying in his child's arms. Byleth had been uncharacteristically (but understandably) quietly crushed by this loss, and all of the students had felt it as well. Not quite as keenly, but Dimitri knew loss. He knew regret and grief and torment and the desperate need to plant your feet and grit your teeth and not let it sweep you away, even if it meant letting anger and hatred root you to the ground instead. Whatever it took to keep going, and that thought remained entrenched in his mind as he wandered from the knights' hall and squinted against the strong winter sunshine that drenched the area.

He _would_ do whatever it took. Not just for the ghosts that clutched at him with savage expectations, but for his professor, who had survived at the hands of those who had also surely caused the Tragedy of Duscur. For those who stood beside him and fought for justice. For Dedue. 

And, Dimitri thought, pausing on the top step that led further down to the small plot that housed several grave markers, for the girl who had shakily stepped out of her room of her own volition. The girl who crouched and placed flowers on Jeralt's grave, who also knew loss and injustice.

They would not mourn for anyone else again. He would destroy the Flame Emperor and the rest of their enemies and after the voices had been quieted and their spirits finally appeased and able to rest, then-- yes.

Perhaps then, Dimitri would be able to smile with the rest of his companions and not hear the screams grow louder as punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bernadetta being eight days older than Dimitri gives me joy. Also as a heads up, for Reasons, the next two or three chapters are going to be from Bernadetta's point-of-view.
> 
> I'm sure it will all be fine. :')
> 
> Thanks once again, guys!!


	9. Changes and Conflicts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bernadetta tries to deal and experiences varying results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, HI GUYS I'M ALIVE... long story short, a lot happened, and once you lose momentum, getting it back is a battle for the ages. So please forgive me for the delay as I get back into this! If you're still here, bless you and your patience. If you're new, welcome! I will reiterate this, wholeheartedly: I am definitely going to finish this story, no matter how long it actually takes!
> 
> And with that, let's move on! Spoilers for Chapters 10, 11, and 12 for the Blue Lions route.

She hadn't been lying to Byleth when she'd told the professor she wasn't feeling well. And she had _mostly_ been sincere during her frantic scramble to insist that her retreating to her room wasn't because said professor had green hair and green eyes now and looked as though the Archbishop's long-lost stoic twin had made an astonishing reappearance from the depths of nonexistence.

Not _only_ because, Bernadetta amended to herself. The queasy, twisting pretzel that was her stomach had begun folding itself into uncomfortable shapes before that. Kronya, for all of her taunts and tricks, had been reduced to a gasping, writhing and frightened figure at the hands of someone she had apparently trusted. Their professor had been banished into some desolate dimension, never to be seen from again, and Dimitri had been so perfectly still and precise in his rage that Bernadetta couldn't help but think that maybe it might have been better if _she_ had been tossed into nothingness instead.

And _then_ the professor had gone and sliced through the air itself to casually meander back with an overwhelming new power, lead them in a spirited retaliation against Solon, and fall asleep without a word before anyone could think to ask about what had even _happened_.

Bernadetta didn't think she could be blamed for staying (mostly) silent on the way back, sans some troubled whimpering as the reality of the events that had transpired sank into her. Dimitri's focus rested entirely on bearing their unconscious professor back to the monastery, using that Crest-fueled strength of his, and the rest of them had been either troubled (Mercedes, Ingrid, Felix, Dorothea and Dedue with the tiny crease to his eyebrows that she could now read and understand) or still in shock (Ashe, Sylvain, and Annette) or...

Caspar was always his own category at all times, needless to say, and had decided to be ecstatic over Byleth's sky-slicing powers, which hadn't done anything to make Bernadetta any less eager to return to the sanctuary that was her room. Honestly, just the memory of his overeager rambling about how _amazing_ that had been was enough to make her scalp prickle uncomfortably.

But it had been Goddess-blessed silence since then; a quick glance towards the door to gauge the shifting of the light and shadows and the lack of human chatter meant it was probably long past dusk and no one should be wandering creepily along the grounds. Besides her.

It was almost funny to think about, that moons ago, Bernadetta had harbored that same thought as she slipped into the kitchen and that very innocent assumption had led her right into the arms of Faerghus' crown prince. It hadn't been a very pleasant meeting, but even so, looking back on it and what it had led to (despite the panic, the flailing, the screaming, and the loss of consciousness)-- she couldn't bring herself to even think about redoing it.

Or at least, she concluded (as she made her way across the grounds), not for herself. But perhaps her latest story could include an unanticipated meeting? The heroine, hidden from the eye of the nobility, maybe due to her birthright, but the product of an affair, breathlessly encountering a chivalrous and courageous prince in a common eating area--

"Ohhh, I should've brought paper and a quill," Bernadetta muttered fervently, her mind racing with the possibilities. "But if I whip up something really fast, then I should be able to get back and jot it all down before anything else ha--"

"Bernadetta?"

She wasn't sure how to feel in that precise moment, afforded a couple of seconds to ponder the enlightening fact that she was more startled by Dimitri being present in front of the dining hall at this hour than Dimitri calling out to her at all. But it made sense, she told herself. Dimitri was always the one to find her-- so often that at this point, she almost expected him to just pop up in some unexpected fashion before the day was done.

"Dimitri," Bernadetta finally remembered to say in return, a little meekly. "H-hi? Hi."

In her heart, she was more than brave enough to ask what he was doing here at this time... but then he'd probably have some perfectly legitimate reason and want to then know _her_ answer, and there was no way it was going to pass muster. 

Dimitri smiled, though there was something slightly worn about his expression-- as though he had to consciously think about doing so. "Hello. I had heard from the professor that you weren't feeling well, so I'm pleased to see that you're at least upright. You _do_ look pale, however... have you eaten? Can I escort you to a seat?"

"I-I'm fine! Really!" Bernadetta shook her head, taking a few steps closer to appease him before he could - Goddess help her - do something even more embarrassing than _caring_. "I was actually about to make something, but..."

There shouldn't have been a "but" and she could acknowledge that, but as she stared up at Dimitri and that strange smile of his, the words just kept coming. "You kind of don't look so well yourself! A-are _you_ all right? Your color's not that great..."

Dimitri chuckled-- again, it seemed like it required a subtle effort on his part. "I should have known not much would escape your discerning eye. But to repeat your reassurance-- I, too, am fine. I merely have a headache... I've had some trouble sleeping, as of late."

_As of late_, he'd said, and Bernadetta carefully let her thoughts drift to where they normally shouldn't: Dimitri's face, graceful bone structure and all. But now that he mentioned it, he'd been sporting a more wan complexion even before things had happened with Kronya and Solon. His steadfast and noble demeanor had been shed in favor of more brutal threats when encountering enemies, though of course he had never taken that fury out on any of his companions. He had still been very gentle with her during their lance training sessions, but there were times when he would briefly grimace or pinch the bridge of his nose.

Dedue had to have noticed if _she_ had, which meant that suggesting Dimitri head off to bed right now would have already been attempted-- and had failed, apparently. Whatever kept him from peaceful slumber - and she could still remember the way his larger hands had gripped hers in the greenhouse, how his breaths had been broken, wobbly noises, and she had cried for the heartbreak in his eyes - it wasn't going to let go of him that easily.

So maybe it wasn't right to force it. Maybe she could just... work to temper what he was enduring.

She hadn't been looking for company, but Bernadetta smiled tentatively at Dimitri now and gestured to the doors of the dining hall.

"Um... if you don't mind, there's a tea I like to brew when I have a hard time sleeping. It won't knock you out or anything, but it's really soothing! O-or at least, _I_ think so! It could be totally different for you, and that's fine, or-- well, maybe it might be better to ask Mercedes, _she's_ the healer..."

Dimitri's smile was faint, but soft. "If it's not too much trouble... I would like to try this tea of yours, Bernadetta. I won't keep you long, of course. You should rest."

And there he went again, worrying about other people more than himself. The Bernadetta who had fought his cloak so long ago would have thought it was merely a ploy designed to lower her guard, so that he could snap her neck in one swift moment. The Bernadetta of now?

Those feelings of fondness regarding her friend definitely weren't going anywhere, problematically. If anything, they were only getting worse.

For now (and forever, she thought), they could stay right where they were. She had some tea to brew and a prince to stress over.

* * *

At the time, a few weeks ago, Bernadetta had let herself relax in the presence of Dimitri's unguarded smile. She hadn't been able to completely help with his sleeping problems, a fact he'd admitted with the utmost reluctance and with an immediate insistence that such a thing wasn't her fault. In fact, he'd even stopped by her room more than once to invite her to take tea with him-- and Dedue, of course. Dimitri had claimed that whatever it was, the tea or her company, his mind _did_ feel clearer then.

At this current point in time, however, Bernadetta could truthfully say her level of relaxation was on par with Caspar's level of patience: nonexistent.

Gathering in an ancient underground tomb so their professor could sit on an abandoned throne and pray for a revelation had sounded like a bad idea from the very beginning, and she had half-hoped that Byleth's mind would be changed about this whole thing. But no, plans had proceeded as intended, with Bernadetta dreading that things would go wrong and Felix carelessly remarking that he _hoped_ things would, for the fighting opportunity alone.

Now, Bernadetta stood frozen, the unnatural pulsing of the Crest Stone in her palm the only indication that this wasn't just a nightmare. That Edelgard _wasn't_ the Flame Emperor-- their enemy. That Dimitri _hadn't_ just crushed the neck of a reckless Imperial soldier with all the thoughtless irritation of one brushing away an incessantly hovering gnat.

The pain he carried with him had warped, twisted him into someone almost unrecognizable in his unstable rage. Was it Edelgard? It had to have been; he hadn't started cackling in frenzied disbelief until he had seen her face. But why?

It wasn't important right now, she thought, slipping the stone into her quiver until she could hand it over to Rhea. Edelgard had vanished, alongside Hubert and the remaining soldiers who didn't lay discarded on the ground. Byleth was speaking tersely to the Archbishop, and all of the students were tending to their own injuries while casting the blood-spattered prince gazes ranging from worried to frightened to unreadable.

No one approached Dimitri, and Bernadetta swallowed hard against her own fear. Someone... ought to talk to him. Or at least see if he had been injured-- not that he appeared to be, with how vigorously he had lunged at Edelgard.

Dimitri, however, solved this problem himself: by pivoting on his heel and striding straight towards her. His expression was one of the utmost solemnity, a sight more familiar, and Bernadetta took a breath, tasting timid relief.

Until he seized her by the shoulders, fingers _carving_ into the flesh beneath the cloth more than gripping. That pensive look was gone then as Bernadetta winced, replaced by a much darker intent.

"Did you know?" His voice was almost a growl. "No-- you couldn't have known. You would have told me, wouldn't you? You would not have dared to betray me and stand on the side of that _girl_, Bernadetta. _Would you?_"

"No, I--!" Two seconds seemed two seconds too slow for Dimitri's liking, and Bernadetta's voice went tight with pain as his fingers dug in and he shook her so fiercely that her head almost snapped back from the force of it. "I didn't-- I _swear_ I didn't know, Dimitri! Pl... please, you're hurting--"

Dimitri stopped abruptly, gazing down at her... and then, much to her horror, he _smiled._ It wasn't anything like the soft ones he'd given her before, or the ones startled from him in an unexpected burst of laughter, or even the ones he'd struggled to maintain lately. It was slightly crazed and it didn't reach his eyes, and every instinct in her body wailed at her to get _away_.

But she couldn't. This was Dimitri. Her friend. Someone she cared about. What kind of horrible person _was_ she, to look at him now and feel only terror?

"Yes... that's right." A low chuckle. "How silly of me, Bernadetta... you're no longer with _her_. You, Caspar, Dorothea... you aren't responsible for Duscur. You'll be right there when I sever her head from her shoulders, of course."

His smile was growing more lopsided by the second, and just as Bernadetta felt tears beginning to clog her vision, Felix grabbed her by her hood and hauled her back from Dimitri's nearly unyielding grip.

"That's enough, boar," he spat. "She said you were hurting her. Or are you so obsessed with the dead that you can't even hear the people still alive around you?"

Dimitri blinked, the surprise all the more unsettling on a face half-speckled with blood. His stare was more inquisitive now, apologetic, but still... strangely dazed. As though he was mostly going through the motions.

But Byleth was beckoning them over, and Dorothea was heading their way to grasp Bernadetta's hand in her own. The contrast in warmth between Dorothea's palm and the clamminess of Bernadetta's skin had her murmuring inane apologies, but her friend only offered her a strong smile and ushered her closer to listen to what was to come next.

Hours later, as she prepared to change for bed, Bernadetta stared at the ten darkening imprints on her shoulders and shuddered.

* * *

It felt a bit like sleepwalking, if Bernadetta had ever been prone to such a thing-- and her father would have scolded her viciously for such an unpleasant habit, so she was certain she'd never done it. But it must have felt like this, a heaviness to her limbs that dragged her head down and the way the days seemed to pass in a haze of half-recalled lessons and the weary knowledge that Edelgard was leading an army to attack the monastery.

Her former classmates, the remaining Black Eagles, had been just as stunned by this turn of events as the rest of the monastery; Linhardt had holed himself up within the library, brows furrowed ("But he's still breathing and I make sure he eats," Caspar reassured Bernadetta, after his fifth check-in). Ferdinand looked unusually tormented; he had been the one to seek Bernadetta out first near the greenhouse, to tell her about how half of the six noble houses had aligned themselves with Edelgard's cause-- and how her father was put under house arrest, with her mother offered a political position in service to the new emperor.

She hadn't received a letter from her parents, but Bernadetta thought that might have been for the best. She wasn't being ordered to come back, not yet. And she wasn't being ordered to support Edelgard, as the Varley heir. Maybe they thought that she wouldn't be able to make much of a difference in this upcoming fight. Or maybe they just didn't care. Whatever the case, it was just another problematic drop in the sea of concerns and doubts that threatened to drag her under before she could scream-- and Bernadetta was rather skilled at shrieking first and asking questions later.

The more important problem, the problem she had never thought she would have after the ill-fated friendship with the boy in the garden so many years ago, was Petra. And Bernadetta thought that really, she should have kept to herself and her room and her art if it meant that she'd never have to see the conflict in her friend's pained gaze.

"I am not certain what I am to be doing," she said now, as Dorothea patiently pried apart her clasped hands in order to hold them instead. "I owe Duke Gerth a great debt, as he is the minister of affairs that are foreign... as a proud warrior of Brigid, I must answer to that. But his support is with Edelgard, who seeks to claim this monastery where my friends are. Edelgard... is also my friend. But Dorothea and Bernie are my friends as well. And Claude. And Ashe, and many others. What... where is my answer?"

"That's not something I can tell you." Dorothea's eyes were sad, her smile sympathetic. "If you feel like you want to support Edie, I'm not going to tell you not to, just like I'm not going to tell you that you should. I personally don't agree with what she's doing, and that's why I'll defend this place. But something like this... you have to reach that answer for yourself. And the same goes for you, Bern."

Bernadetta opened her mouth, but her friend eloquent stampeded on. "And don't you tell me that you _have_ to stand by Dimitri simply because you think he'll snap you cleanly in half. Sure, he's strong, but his magical resistance definitely isn't. I could zap him before he could lay a single finger on you again. The _point_ is, whatever decision you reach, I want it to be because it's what _you_ want. You, and no one else."

"I--" The word shook. Just one syllable and she couldn't even say it properly. This was more than Bernadetta, in all of her terrified paranoia, had ever anticipated. Having to fight Hubert and Edelgard as enemies? Having the monastery come closer to attack with each day that slipped by? "I... don't want to fight. I-I mean, at all. But..."

Dimitri, tentatively offering her a belated birthday present she had never expected. Dimitri, pride warm in his eyes as he spun her around in a dance no one else would witness. Dimitri, shuddering and clutching at her hands in the greenhouse like her touch was the only thing grounding him in that moment. Dimitri, patiently guiding her through lance training each and every time.

Dimitri, his laughter wild and fragmented, silenced abruptly in time for the crunch of breaking bone to echo in the Holy Tomb as he carelessly tossed an Imperial soldier to the ground.

Leaving him without support... didn't feel right. Not when he'd been beside her all this time, gently tugging her into a friendship she so dearly cherished.

And it wasn't just him. Dedue, always quietly insisting on walking her back to her room after a session spent in the greenhouse-- even now, when his prince could be found darkly muttering promises to the dead. Felix, who pointedly cleared his throat now to alert her of his presence before demanding she train with him. Baking sessions that Mercedes had cajoled her into, with Annette gleefully joining in. Caring for the horses with Ashe and Ingrid. Sylvain, who always seemed to know the precise moment Bernadetta started to cringe from the sensation of being overwhelmed and always sought to distract her with his crookedly concerned smile and flirtatious lines that she knew he didn't mean (but she also knew were guaranteed to get Dorothea over there in a flash to lead her away).

Caspar and Dorothea too, the two who had left the Black Eagles and had their own problems to face regarding this upcoming battle. Still, aside from bemoaning the fact that his father might be coming with Edelgard, Caspar had kept his chin up-- and Dorothea had remained as outwardly determined and decisive as always.

And the professor... the person who had just as patiently approached Bernadetta and coaxed her into their class.

She was a coward. She'd be the _first_ to admit that to herself. But, for once louder than her fear, another voice inside of her whispered that she'd lose so much more if she didn't fight this time.

"I think... if I ran from this, then I'd really be no good," Bernadetta whispered. "And I think there's probably a good chance that I'll still be useless when the fight actually comes to us, b-but... I want to help. A-and besides, Hubert and Lady Edelgard wouldn't want someone like me anyway, so--"

"Their loss!" Dorothea sang out, and Petra nodded emphatically. "Anyway, while we don't have a whole lot of time left, we do have _some_ time... so Petra, you just think about what you want to do, and whatever it is... no hard feelings."

Petra's second nod was just as firm. "Yes... understood. Thank you both... I will be giving this much thought."

They said nothing more beyond that, but Bernadetta thought she couldn't have been the only one who had heard the dissonant tremor in Dorothea's highly-trained voice.

* * *

If she kept her eyes only on the Empire's soldiers, if she focused on the fact that people who had sworn to protect Adrestia were trying to kill her, then Bernadetta didn't have to think all _that_ much.

Except, of course, surviving. With arrows, crackling magic and bolts screaming through the air over her head, the roar of demonic beasts shaking the earth itself, and the teeth-gritting metallic slide of swords meeting and struggling for dominance... it was all Bernadetta could do to narrow her focus on one thing at a time.

Dodge an axe swung down at her shoulder, swallow a scream while retaliating with an arrow to punch through the unprotected space between the soldier's armor and his shoulder. Stagger in surprise when Ashe pressed his back to hers, calling her attention to the sky and automatically swinging her bow up to help target the pegasus knights attempting to soar overhead and secure a path to the Archbishop.

"... Holding up?" Ashe asked, and she knew he'd said more than that, but that had been all she'd been able to make out. Even with him this close, the chaos of the fight Edelgard had brought to the monastery wasn't to be underestimated.

"I'm-- well, not _fine_, but--" Nothing about this was fine. The only thing Bernadetta could find to be grateful about this was that she didn't see any of the Black Eagles (other than Hubert, locked in a spell-slinging battle with Mercedes) participating in the fight, other than the ones who had joined the Blue Lions long before this. 

"I'm still alive," she concluded, and heard Ashe laugh breathlessly. That had to be good enough, even if Bernadetta knew that this very important fact could still be reversed at any given moment, if they weren't careful enough.

But somehow... they were managing. They were driving back the invading force and Dimitri was hellbent on defeating Edelgard in one decisive blow--

Something... felt wrong, though. She couldn't place it, but it felt like the noise of the battlefield was swelling further. The volume was becoming more deafening. Almost like...

Bernadetta's squeak harmonized with Ashe's yelp as Byleth suddenly raced past them, sword angled in front.

"P-Professor?! Wh--"

"Evacuation," the professor said curtly, and was gone.

Before either of them could think of how to respond to that or even ask each other what _that_ was about, another sound had joined the fracas: a roar, somehow more guttural and bone-shuddering than the howls the demonic beasts had been releasing. And what appeared in the sky next was neither a pegasus nor a wyvern, but--

"I-is that... t-that's a..." Ashe stammered, disbelieving.

"Yeeeah, pretty sure that's a dragon," Sylvain muttered, drawing his horse up close to them as it nervously and whinnied in clear anxiety (and she honestly couldn't blame it). "Looks like things just got crazier. But hey, on the bright side... I _think_ it's on our side?"

"B-because it isn't incinerating us where we stand? O-or because it's decided w-we're not worthy to be the main course so--"

Sylvain's smile was more of a wry twist than anything else. "I was going to say 'because it seems to be focused on attacking the Imperial army', but you know what, you bring up two very valid points. Here we stand, not on fire, and two out of the three of us aren't exactly meaty enough to be more than toothpicks--"

"I-I'm still putting on muscle!" Ashe protested, shooting a charging swordsman in the throat and dropping him within seconds.

"Please don't try to make yourself sound more edible... p-please, I don't want it getting ideas..." Bernadetta swallowed uneasily, and with a great deal of effort when all of the moisture in her mouth seemed to have vanished. "A-anyway, maybe we can--"

Looking back on it, she couldn't have said what led to the plummeting feeling of certain dread first: Dimitri's near-feral cry of rage or the bellowing shriek of a dragon that sounded more like a wailing lamentation.

All Bernadetta knew by the time the night was over was that Garreg Mach Monastery had been seized, both Rhea and the professor had vanished, and the feeling of happiness, of burgeoning courage and a sense of belonging she had been cultivating among her classmates...

Vanished right along with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very thankful for all of the support, even if writing this chapter was like pulling teeth because I DON'T WANNA WRITE THE NOT-SWEET THINGS BUT I GOTTA. Things need to get worse before they get better, after all!
> 
> Up next: Some time passes and-- Caspar. Just. Caspar.
> 
> You'll see.


	10. Remorse and Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bernadetta experiences a break-in and a break-out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE. I lost my momentum terribly, and for that, I'm very sorry. But as soon as I upload this, I'm opening up a new doc to start the next chapter, and as promised, this fic will be seen through to the end.
> 
> Anyway, we have now officially hit the timeskip portion of the Blue Lions story! As such, there will be spoilers for this chapter and all chapters going forward. The next chapter will also be from Bernadetta's POV and then we'll see if it's Dimitri's turn to step forward.
> 
> Away!!

Bernadetta’s fingers plucked aimlessly at the bit of thread she had yet to knot. How ironic, she thought, with a weariness she didn’t think she had earned, that after finding solace and safety in her own room, she now wanted nothing more than to be out of it.

Being out of it, however, was no better than remaining. Not when her father’s temper had only worsened since his Emperor-imposed house arrest still had no end in sight, his wife was faithfully serving Edelgard in Enbarr, and his one and only heir was as useless as she’d always been.

No, she thought, her gaze seeking out some sort of focus and finding it in the thread she twisted: soft blue, burned all the more vivid by the sun. There had been a time where she had finally started to believe that she might be more than that. At least a little. Not in the way Count Varley would have _wanted_, of course (surely he was regretting having ordered her home at all), but it had been something she could have been pleased with.

But the takeover of the monastery and everything that had followed had shoved her right back down to the bottom of the pit of desolation and self-loathing, made all the worse by the news that had still managed to reach her within her four familiar walls. And no amount of new paintings or intricately stitched and framed embroidery could shield her from the truth.

That Prince Dimitri was dead, accused of murder-- specifically, avunculicide. One of the maids had mentioned it when bringing Bernadetta her meal, as though this was just another simple casualty of war and not the person who had done so much to help put her at ease. He had been her friend. And more than that, it just _seemed_ like one big terrible lie. 

Dimitri had lost most of his family already. Even having witnessed him with enraged eyes and discordant cackles, he wasn’t someone who would take the life of his own flesh and blood. Especially not if he’d let _Bernadetta_, born and raised in the Empire, live and continue to stay by his side.

… Even if by his side had become more like “at a safe distance behind him” once Edelgard had revealed her true intentions. Not that it mattered now. Regardless of the truth, Dimitri was dead. The Professor and the Archbishop were both still missing. The Empire was continuing to expand its influence, pushing further into Faerghus with each day that shuddered by, and she had no idea how the rest of the Blue Lions were faring.

As for the Black Eagles, not much news had reached her ears either; Edelgard had been far too occupied to make a personal appearance at the Varley estate, but she had sent a letter asking for Bernadetta’s support. Ferdinand, also occupied but also the gentlest kind of busybody, _had_ shown up one day to implore her firmly closed door to consider allying with the emperor. He had said it was in her best interests. He said no one bore her any ill will.

Bernadetta almost asked him who “no one” was, but any answer he could have given her would have just made her heart twist itself into even tighter knots, so she said nothing at all and held her breath until she was so lightheaded she couldn’t hear his departing footsteps.

It was probably just delaying the inevitable; sooner or later, she would have to make a choice. Either she stepped outside to join Edelgard or she stepped outside to let her father marry her off to whoever survived the war and still had some dregs of wealth and influence clinging at the end of it.

Or, Bernadetta reasoned, the thread now wrapped tightly around her thoughtless fingers, she could stay here forever until she died. Just a Bernadetta skeleton, sitting hunched in her chair, with no one the wiser and no real loss to be had, not even to the man who had just headbutted her window open and draped himself across the sill--

For all that The Man Who Maybe Resembled Caspar let out a panicked noise and slammed his finger to his lips, looking unfairly indignant, Bernadetta for once decided that-- no, she could _not_ be faulted for screaming.

“Shhhhhh!” The intruder hissed, though his hushed tone was somehow even louder than her shriek. “You’re going to make them think you’re being attacked and I’m pretty sure I can’t sneak back into your room a second time!”

His voice hadn’t changed _all_ that much, and the unrepentant eyebrow raise he was demonstrating solidified his identity. This was definitely Caspar von Bergliez, much taller than the last time she’d seen him (once he finished hauling himself into the room and stood up straight). With this much proven, Bernadetta inhaled slowly, and released it even more carefully.

“No one’s going to come,” she promised, thinly. “I used to yell a lot when I was younger to beg someone to untie me, and then I screamed whenever anyone tried to get me to attend lessons, so at this point, they must all be used to it.”

“That’s kinda messed up,” Caspar informed her cheerily, reaching out to bat her embroidery aside and wrap his fingers around her wrist. “But it works out in our favor, so I’ll take it!”

Bernadetta had at least five questions she wanted to ask and an additional ten that she dreaded asking. In her moment of indecision, she could only wish for Linhardt’s presence-- if nothing else, no other person could dauntlessly keep Caspar in line like he could. Bernadetta, on the other hand, was the direct opposite. But even she knew that if she stood there gaping for too long, Caspar would have her half-dragged out the way he’d come in, which would be the window, which would be--

_Exactly where he was towing her_.

Alarmed, Bernadetta shoved her heels back into the lavish rug. “W-wait! What are you--”

Caspar’s eyebrow lift made its reappearance and he paused long enough to (probably unintentionally) let her sense of dread build. “You weren’t listening to me at all, were you? You really _do_ live in your own little world, Bernadetta. As I was _saying_, we’re getting out of here. I figured you’d be crying in your room or something along those lines and that you’d need help breaking out, so-- here I am! I’ve gotta say, your father didn’t exactly make it easy to bust in, but it made for a really great workout! I’ve gotta scale walls more often.”

Five years had clearly done nothing for his sense of recklessness… no, if anything, it had apparently only made it soar to the forefront of Caspar’s priorities.

“Listen,” Bernadetta tried, even as her defeatist nature already knew that she wouldn’t be able to present an argument good enough to thwart him. She’d been in _two_ Houses with him and his stubbornness had only been lovingly cultivated by his time spent with the Blue Lions. “Y-you can’t just-- that’s-- why are you even going this far for someone like me??”

Her former classmate looked so genuinely nonplussed by the question that she almost felt guilty. “We promised, didn’t we-- mm, though maybe you were crying in the corner about dancing then? But still, there was a promise! Five years ago, or almost about that time, that we’d meet up again at the monastery. No matter what. All of us!”

Now that he mentioned it, Bernadetta could just faintly recall everyone looking hopeful (except Felix and Dedue, who were devout believers of Not Grinning) and Dimitri smiling in her direction, head tilted in that gently encouraging way of his…

She shook her head, looked back at the soft blue thread lying discarded on the rug. Lifeless. Like--

“I-I don’t really think anyone’s going to remember something like that with a war going on, Caspar.”

“And _I_ think they will!” Caspar’s smile was wide, unfazed by such simple things like reality. “You know, I bet Dimitri’ll find a way to be there, too!”

It was as though he’d gone and grasped her neck in his hand instead of her wrist. Her breath shuddered, nearly stopped, and Bernadetta’s knees almost followed suit with the powerful tremor that coursed through her.

Thankfully, Caspar was paying enough attention to grab her elbow with his other hand, keeping her upright. “Hey, whoa! You all right?”

“He’s… dead,” and she forced out the words, because she _had_ to. Even if they felt like shattered and uneven fragments of porcelain in her throat, she couldn’t just-- pretend that everything was fine, that Dimitri would just show up with a polite knock and an apologetic smile for the _somehow_ false news that he had been executed for the murder of a family member. “If-- if _I_ know that, then surely you must have known that too. Dimitri isn’t going to come, b-because he’s--!”

Bernadetta knew she was slumping; she could feel the tension tighten the muscles in Caspar’s arms as he held her on her feet.

“Aww, Bernadetta…” He was looking distinctly uncomfortable now, which was _entirely_ her fault-- but, mulishly, she thought that she didn’t want to apologize for it. Not this time, not when his optimism was as pretty as a soap bubble and just as empty. 

They were both silent for a moment, Caspar making several attempts to speak (grunting in frustration every time he failed) and Bernadetta trying to suck in breaths to prevent her eyes from overflowing and her nose from running.

“You know, my own father doesn’t seem to believe it,” Caspar muttered. “Word is that no one was able to see the body or confirm he was dead, it was _that_ secret. But isn’t that sort of thing a huge deal? Who _doesn’t_ hold a public execution for the heir of the throne?”

_Merciful people,_ Bernadetta didn’t say, because if they had truly been merciful, they would have been able to understand that Dimitri would never have committed a crime like that. She hadn’t even spent a full year with him and _she_ knew that.

“Besides…” Her friend went on, perhaps bolstered by the fact that she hadn’t yet lapsed into more hysterical bawling, “this is Dimitri we’re talking about! I only won about three fights out of twelve with him! There’s no way someone like him would just lie down and let himself get… uh, his head chopped off? Was that what they were saying it was? Burned at the stake?”

A distressed noise escaped before Bernadetta could stop it.

“Killed!” Caspar concluded. “So _until_ we know for sure that Dimitri got revenge-murdered, we might as well hope for the best, right? And it’s not like you’re getting anything done by just _sitting_ here. This way you can come with me, we can see our friends, and you won’t be here when Hubert gets tired of waiting and comes to drag you into the war himself!”

That was… a horribly plausible scenario, she couldn’t deny that. Caspar was right-- cheerful delusions or not, if Bernadetta stayed put, she was still in an undesirable situation. Ingrid and Caspar himself had proved that people would still find a way to her, whether she let them in or not. And surely no one would want to go near Garreg Mach anymore. It was close enough to Varley territory, too, so not too much of an arduous trip.

Also, if there was any chance of…

… No, she couldn’t let herself even think about it. 

“I feel like you’d just throw me out the window, even if I said I wasn’t going…” As she finally straightened out her legs, Caspar shot her a pleased smile.

“I’d _carry_ you out the window,” he corrected. “But yeah. At least this way you can grab whatever stuff you wanna bring with you!”

There wasn’t much, admittedly, when Bernadetta quickly searched the room at a glance. She hadn’t had time to grab most of her possessions before Garreg Mach had officially fallen, just the trinkets she’d received for her birthday and wore now and…

Oh. “Hold on!”

Caspar accurately read this as an order to let go, rather than to keep holding her, and Bernadetta scurried over to the corner to a desk that hadn’t seen much use. The object that sat atop it was carefully placed in a roomy enough bag, along with a few other essentials, and she cradled it in her arms when she returned to her would-be kidnapper.

“A-all right. Um… you do have a plan to get us down safely, right?”

Caspar beamed. “Well, you already know I was going to throw you over my shoulder if you were gonna fight me on it, even though I remember you didn’t really like that… but you agreed to come along, so this way’s a whole lot easier! Don’t bite your tongue, okay?”

“Bite my t--_aaaaaaaaaah?!_”

Again, Bernadetta could not even think to feel guilt for screaming when Caspar picked her up by the waist and bodily flung her out the window. The _second-story_ window, and even if she survived, she’d likely never walk again, and sure, that was _one_ way to avoid fighting a war, but that was an awfully convoluted plan coming from Caspar and he’d never really understood not wanting to fight anyway so why--

The wind suddenly coiled around her, slowing her descent to a respectable float until her feet safely touched the ground. Three horses regarded her curiously, ears pricked forward.

“I didn’t expect he’d convince you quite so quickly,” Linhardt remarked, comfortably astride one horse. “It’s a good thing it’s impossible to nap on an impatient horse, as nice as the sun feels today… I had a feeling he’d forget to warn me.”

“Sorry about that!” Caspar called from above, flinging himself out into the air just as freely as he had tossed Bernadetta. It was probably a testament to their long friendship that Linhardt didn’t so much as flinch, only sighed and curled his fingers towards his palm. The wind once again sailed forth to catch his friend and Caspar released a gleeful laugh as he landed, only to immediately bound onto the back of the second horse.

Feeling a bit like she was still rushing towards her death, Bernadetta wobbled over to the last horse, letting the mare sniff her hair. “L-Linhardt? You’re-- you’re coming too?”

In response, he shook his head. “Consider this a favor for an old friend and a former schoolmate. If I had any kind of choice in the matter, I would find the ideal napping spot, far away from this war and be done with it for five more years. But I suspect I won’t have that luxury… if nothing else, I wanted to give you both the opportunity to think about what it is you want to do from now on. In return…”

“My blood? My Crest? T-the tethers of my soul?”

Linhardt snorted gently. “Good, you’re still so irrationally wary. Then it shouldn’t be too difficult to use that worry of yours to keep Caspar from rushing headlong into perilous situations until we meet again. I’ll be counting on you to do that much, Bernadetta.”

She didn’t think anyone ought to be relying on her for anything, let alone keeping someone like Caspar von Bergliez out of trouble, but Linhardt’s smile was quietly resigned and Caspar himself was pointedly busying himself with checking his horse’s saddlebags and her own horse was lipping at the earring she’d only taken to wearing fairly recently.

Things were going to have to change, whether she wanted them to or not, and so Bernadetta let her chin dip towards her chest.

“I-I’ll try.”

She kept the bag tucked between her stomach and her steed’s neck as two horses headed north and one horse and its rider cantered in the opposite direction, with no one at the Varley estate any wiser until it was far too late.

* * *

The first and last time Bernadetta had journeyed to Garreg Mach Monastery from home, it had been from within the confines of a bag and as such, there was no sense of nostalgia to be found in riding there now. Which was fine, because she didn’t need to be thinking about her life there. If all went well, they would reach the monastery soon enough and she could see if any remnants of the Blue Lions were willing to be stirred enough by their own memories to also arrive. They were largely a very loyal, if not sentimental, bunch and Caspar seemed confident enough that they wouldn’t be the only ones there.

But if unfriendly faces were the ones to greet them instead, she at least felt better for having her bow hooked over her shoulder. It felt snug and welcome, as though it had never left her side.

“Oh, huh. Look at that!” Caspar tugged his horse to a halt, prompting an irritated snort from the gelding. His tone was mildly impressed, a warning sign she ought to have heeded when Bernadetta glanced over in the direction he was pointing at. 

Her breath caught. 

The delicate glow of moonlight filtering through the trees did nothing to soften the sight of countless broken and blood-soaked bodies sprawled on the ground before them. None of them were immediately familiar, and a second check revealed their garb to be more standard of bandits. She couldn’t quite tell who they had been fighting (and she wasn’t about to get off her horse to investigate more closely), but from the stench in the air, it had been very recent. 

It also had to have been more than one person, with at least twenty bodies present. It didn’t mean much in the way of solving the mystery, but she could only hope that whoever had been fighting bandits, they weren’t planning to make enemies out of two former students.

“Wow,” Caspar marveled, once again directly contradicting Bernadetta’s feelings pertaining to a bunch of brutalized corpses. “I sure hope whoever did this is still around! I bet they’d be _amazing_ to fight!”

She couldn’t even be surprised-- but she _could_ be the bucket of cold water that Linhardt so earnestly thought she should be, and it was with great vigor that Bernadetta shook her head and reached out to grab the reins of Caspar’s horse before he could leap from it and take off running.

“Reunion first, remember?” She reminded him, doing her best not to sound too shrill. “Y-you can… hunt them down later. _Much_ later. Like… years later.”

“Aww, c’mon!” He let out a whine not entirely unlike some of the dogs around her estate. “At least make it a lot sooner than _that_!”

Bernadetta offered her best glare, not entirely confident in the presentation.

“Don’t pout at me like that, I get it.” Caspar sighed theatrically, but relaxed his shoulders. “We’re close enough to the actual place, anyway! So let’s see if anyone’s nearby and then we can find out who did this and how many of ‘em we get to fight--”

“_Caspar!_”

“If it comes to that!!”

Unfortunately (for Caspar), there wasn’t much in the way of human interaction. Bernadetta wasn’t comfortable bringing the horses too close to the monastery, so they left them tethered to a nearby tree with non-corpse-covered grass to graze on and moved the rest of the way on foot.

It felt slightly surreal to approach Garreg Mach with a sense of trepidation, hesitation in every deliberate step. She might have crossed the threshold in a bag for the first time, but returning to it after every mission had used to fill her with a sense of relief and a longing to return to her room. The overwhelming amount of people aside, it was the closest thing to a sanctuary she’d had.

But now? Now it felt like a potential threat. Maybe the Empire’s army had taken it over even more. Maybe there were bandits and rogues and dastards living amongst the rubble from where the ballistae had left their marks. Or maybe it was haunted, filled with the dreadful screams of those who had lost their lives fighting to protect the archbishop and the students.

Maybe Dimitri’s rage had joined them.

“Look, Bernadetta!” Caspar’s chipper voice effectively punched a hole through her thoughts and her head jerked up. “There’s light coming from the monastery! I _knew_ they’d be there! C’mon, hurry it up!”

He broke into a swift jog and Bernadetta hurriedly trotted after him, clutching her bow tightly. “W-wait! We don’t even know if it’s them! We’ll just be walking-- er, no, we’d be _running_ into a trap! A-at least slow down, Caspar!”

Caspar, true to his nature, did not slow down.

Not until they were close, so close she could see the scorch marks etched onto the walls. Close enough that anyone standing guard would have noticed them immediately-- and notice them someone did.

“Halt! Who goes there??” A fully armored guard leveled his spear at them, voice low and menacing. “State your names and business!”

Bernadetta automatically ducked behind Caspar with a sharp gasp, who shrugged amicably. “Well, I’m Caspar von Bergliez and this is--”

“Von Bergliez?” The guard repeated. His tone hardened. “As in, of the Adrestian nobles? Like that damned _general_\--”

Caspar interrupted him with a loud hum. “You’re gonna have to be more specific. I’m pretty sure my father was one, but then I think also my uncle? Yeah, that sounds right!”

“Oh no,” Bernadetta moaned. Never mind the possibility of Dimitri being a ghost vengefully stalking the halls of Garreg Mach Monastery, she was probably going to join them any second now.

“Then you have some _nerve_,” the man snarled. “Thinking you can march here and attempt to reclaim this place? The Knights of Seiros will not _stand_ for your mockery!!”

“More rats? Then cease your prattling and _crush_ them. You would not ordinarily afford such luxuries to scurrying, greedy beasts.”

The voice was… _heavy_, was the only way Bernadetta could think to describe it. Burdened with something she couldn’t quite recognize, but what she _did_ was--

No.

No, it _couldn’t_ be, and she told herself that six more times even as she peeked out from the shield of Caspar’s broad back.

The man striding towards them was intimidating from his posture alone. His hair was disheveled and looked as though it hadn’t been combed or cut in years. A black patch covered one eye and she couldn’t make out the color of the other. A large fur cape swept out behind him and the rest of him was covered in imposing armor.

A man like that was someone to be avoided. Her instincts were screaming and her eyes hurt but--

_Breathe, Bernie._

Bernadetta stepped out fully, and the man came to a halt, waving a hand dismissively to get the guard to lower his lance.

That was sign enough: he’d recognized her. He knew her. And Bernadetta, standing there on trembling legs, her heart pounding in confusion and joy and shock and disbelief, opened her mouth...  
only to release a stunned, choked noise when he grabbed her by the collar and dragged her in in a decidedly hostile manner, glaring into her face. 

“How very bold of an Imperial spy,” said Prince Dimitri of Faerghus, very much alive and very much emanating murderous intent as he hoisted her off her feet and she clutched desperately at the hand suspending her there. “It seems we’ve both changed during our time apart, Bernadetta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP, Bernie-- I mean.
> 
> To those of you who are reading this for the first time, welcome. To those of you who probably (understandably) gave up on this fic, thank you if you came back. To those of you who didn't give up, also thank you!!
> 
> Next chapter: Reunions continue. Some welcome, some painful.


	11. Vanguards and Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bernadetta makes a decision and the fights begin in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! This one isn't as long, but rest assured the rest of the chapters will be longer... I'm just going to say spoilers for every Blue Lions timeskip chapter going forward from this point on.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented last time! I was so happy to see so many familiar faces and some unfamiliar ones too! Your support really helps me keep going.
> 
> Having a better idea of where I'm going from here, I can now confidently say that Bernadetta's POV will continue for one more chapter and then it's Dimitri's turn!
> 
> Also that I think I will actually be able to get an end chapter amount set in stone by the next chapter, we can hope.

This was how she died. Staring into one hate-filled eye and a scowl that promised a painful demise if he wasn’t so inclined to end her life via choking first.

Some part of Bernadetta thought she probably should have been much more alarmed at this predicament, but the rest of her was still reeling over the fact that the one trying to kill her was the one everyone said had _been_ killed years ago.

So Caspar had been right… inexplicably.

Actually, speaking of things she couldn’t really grasp at the moment, she had _seen_ (and heard) Dimitri snap a soldier’s neck like a sewing needle. With no hesitation, for that matter. Yet he didn’t quite seem to be as decisive when it came to her, though that really could have just been him debating over her manner of death.

“Di…” Wait, no, he’d called her a spy. She shouldn’t address him so informally, constricted windpipe or not. “Pr--” Was he still a prince, though? “I--”

“That’s enough, Dimitri.” That calm voice, unfazed by nearly anything, cut through Bernadetta’s strangled attempts to speak… and did nothing for the frazzled state of her mind, because not only was Dimitri alive, but there was the Professor, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Dimitri shook it off with a low growl. “And here I thought you were _listening_ when I said I would crush all of the rats.”

“Oh, I was,” Byleth assured him. “But you’re being shortsighted. Have you forgotten that Bernadetta was your classmate? Your friend?”

Bernadetta was dropped rather suddenly to the ground as Dimitri’s bitter laugh shuddered in his throat. “Would that I _could_ forget! Yet here she stands before me, coming to me under the guise of darkness, seeking to--”

“_Oooooh_, it _is_ you!”

A pair of hands seized hers, squeezing warmly, and instead of the menacing figure still looming over her, Bernadetta stared into the beaming face of… well, with a smile that wide and a voice that hadn’t really changed, it could only have been Annette. 

“Here, stand up, let me have a look at you,” she said now, full of bubbly cheer and apparently possessing that certain trait of being able to ignore terrifying people around her. She also had more strength than expected, tugging Bernadetta to her feet with only a minuscule “oof” to show for her triumph. “Just look at you! You’ve grown so much! But I’ll have you know, _I_ grew plenty too!”

“Not from where I’m standing,” Felix drawled, moving into view with one hand resting on the hilt of his (still, thank the Goddess) sheathed blade.

“Then change position!” Annette retorted. “Anyway, I was _hoping_ we’d see you! Um, a lot’s happened, and so we actually only just got settled to… night! But! We all know you’re not a spy and Dimitri didn’t _mean_ to try and strangle you--”

There was entirely too much going on at the moment, starting with the Professor was back from a Complete and Total Disappearance and _Dimitri was alive_ and continuing with _Dimitri thought she was a threat_ and where it ended, Bernadetta had yet to confirm. Annette still had a firm grip on her forearms to hold her in place, which was very kind of her, because it was almost guaranteed that she’d bonelessly collapse when released.

Caspar offered the dubious guard (who had watched all of this happen with a half-open mouth) a jovial salute. “There, you see? We’re all good here! Just a couple of Blue Lions late to the party, who just so happen to also be from the Empire! And, y’know, members of two of the--”

“Now, now,” and Mercedes’ sweet voice interceded perfectly before things could worsen yet again. “I’m sure you’re both very tired, and Dimitri has also been under quite a bit of stress. Why don’t we all head inside and get ourselves sorted out before we have any more accusations flying around tonight?”

To anyone who didn’t know Mercedes, it would have been a very sensible suggestion. To those who _did_ know her, it was a gently smiling order-- evidenced by the way Dimitri scowled and swept his cloak behind him, stalking back into the monastery and past all of the knights who greeted him nervously (or just plain scurried out of his path).

Caspar was already eagerly chatting with Felix (who chose monosyllabic answers) and Mercedes and Annette opted to stay close to Bernadetta and usher her inside.

“Sorry about that,” Annette sighed, gazing at the solitary and swiftly retreating figure in front of them. “His Highness has… well, I’m still not sure what exactly happened, but he’s had it pretty rough. He’s been rude and vengeful to just about _everybody._”

“He’s tried to kill _everyone_ at first sight?” Bernadetta croaked, not sure if she was supposed to find that comforting or not.

“Oh goodness, no!” Mercedes rested a hand on her back. “You’re the only familiar face he’s reacted to, like… well, like that, I suppose. But as discouraging as that may sound…”

Indeed, it really did nothing to soothe Bernadetta’s already troubled thoughts, and she was so busy trying to will feeling back into her numb and trembling fingers that she almost missed Mercedes’ pensive continuation.

“... I think it actually means that you’ve left quite the impression on him. He may have lashed out at you because he thought you carried the power to hurt him. Dimitri might just be too scarred to let himself believe that you still want to stand beside him, Empire or not.”

“... Isn’t that giving me an _alarming_ amount of credit in the most disheartening way possible?”

Mercedes hummed softly in lieu of an actual answer. “I know it might not feel like it now, but let’s get you settled first. Once we’ve all had a chance to rest and relax just a bit, I’m sure even Dimitri will feel more like himself!”

Skepticism in the face of beaming optimism was an old and familiar feeling that Bernadetta fell into rather easily, but she was too tired from all of the _everything_ to even try and drudge up a protest.

If nothing else, she told herself, her room would still be a consistent beacon of sanity and sanctity, destined to never change… and for tonight, that was the _only_ hope she could cling to.

* * *

Dimitri did not appear to, as evidenced by the way he stood hunched in the cathedral while darkly muttering to no one, feel more like himself in the days that followed. If anything, he didn’t look as though he _had_ rested at all, and without Dedue to frown gently in his direction, there was very little chance of getting him to cooperate.

And Dedue would never be there, regardless of wishing-- Bernadetta had heard the news from Ashe when she’d gone to check on the admittedly sparser selection of plants in the greenhouse, about how it was thanks to Dedue that Dimitri (even this furiously vengeful shade of him) had survived to this point… and how he had sacrificed himself in the process.

No one could claim this to be the warm and cherished reunion they had been looking forward to, that was for certain. Dimitri refused to talk to anyone, save for short, scathing remarks when they approached him, and the air was tense with whispers and speculation about when the Imperial Army would think to inevitably investigate the monastery. The prince had killed no small number of patrolling soldiers, after all, and that would not go unnoticed for long.

But it wasn’t entirely terrible, when compared to the prison of her own home and the weight of fatherly disapproval she shouldered daily. The rest of the Blue Lions had laughed (or scoffed, in Felix’s case) at the thought of either her or Caspar or Dorothea being any kind of spy for the Empire. And Dorothea had given Bernadetta the warmest welcome yet, hiking up her skirt just enough to race over and engulf her in a tight hug.

She’d managed to ask about her health and well-being in the same breath that she complimented her haircut and pierced ears while also vowing to castrate the prince she’d agreed to support if he laid a hand on her again and it was all so very Dorothea that Bernadetta had found herself sniffling pathetically into her nicely-perfumed shoulder.

“He really might be a lost cause, Bern.” It was days later, as Dorothea helped her sift through the rubble of the monastery, that her friend spoke dubiously. “And I don’t want you blaming yourself for that… I know how close you a-- were. But I think it’s as plain to see as a flat note in an aria, Dimitri isn’t the person he used to be. No one’s going to blame you for having second thoughts or just wanting to stay far away from that kind of trouble.”

As chunks of stone resettled, Bernadetta swiped an arm over her nose to discourage the resultant dust cloud. How nice it sounded, the prospect of running away with no one holding her accountable. Dimitri likely wouldn’t even notice.

But…

_“If it was a wish we were making together…”_

He wasn’t the same person who had smiled so carefully at her when he’d asked for her friendship. He wasn’t the same person who had offered her a dance, or who had looked for her just to give her a belated birthday present.

Dimitri had changed, embittered by betrayal after betrayal, sardonic at best to his companions and placating only to voices that reached no one other than him. Perhaps he was already deafened by his own delusions; nothing else seemed to be able to make itself known for more than a few seconds.

But even so, hadn’t they--

“He said…”

_May our paths continue to align._

Bernadetta swallowed nothing but her nerves and it still made her throat sear.

“... I promised him,” she amended. “That I would-- that _we_ would still be close. And even now, I feel like… I can’t just abandon that. Not when he tried so hard to keep reaching out to me all those years ago. N-not when--”

“Not when your feelings run deep,” Dorothea finished for her, her smile both a smug kind of knowing and bearing a sad resignation. “I suppose at this point, it’s much too late to try to save yourself from _that_ particular problem… and for that, my dear Bern, you have my sympathy and what support I can offer.”

Bernadetta had never considered showering thoughts of gratitude upon dust, but it was the easiest thing to blame for her voice emerging hoarsely. And the coughing, when she stammered, “T-that’s not what-- it’s _really_ not, it--”

“Maybe don’t try to speak until the dust settles,” was Dorothea’s merciful suggestion and Bernadetta jerked her head in a frantically meek nod, not-so-surreptitiously busying herself with hauling rubble until her muscles whined louder than her thoughts.

Not that her thoughts were making any amount of sense, for as carefully as she tried to sift through them. Bernadetta was a creature of self-preservation and always had been, after her only friend had been quite literally beaten away from her. She didn’t take risks all that often, unless she deemed the consequences far worse than misery, injury, or death. Logically, Dimitri was scary now and she ought to stay away from him… because if someone so kind to her could be warped into someone whose hands had instantly sought out her neck, wasn’t that just proof that she couldn’t afford to let herself get so close again? Shouldn’t she consider this as a warning from the Goddess herself?

But her words then hadn’t been false. She’d-- they’d promised each other. Also, Bernadetta wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she didn’t give everything she had to protect her friend this time, whether he wanted it or not. And more than that, much as she hated to let those uncomfortable recollections stir themselves to the forefront of her mind… 

Dimitri might have been altered from the noble figure who had never once given up on her, time and time again, but there had been traces all along. When he had charged viciously at Caspar for hurting her during the mock-battle, when his vitriol had bubbled over during Remire, when he had clutched at her hands in the greenhouse and shook as he attempted to match his breathing with hers… well before the Flame Emperor had decisively shoved him off the ledge of sane rationality, he had already been desperately teetering there on a crumbling foothold.

This, too, had always been a part of Dimitri. And if Bernadetta couldn’t accept that, _this_, rather than just the polite and caring person he had been five years ago, then she didn’t deserve to call herself his friend (or even his ally) at all.

This wasn’t something she could… no, it wasn’t something she _would_ hide from. There was no running away or turning back from this.

“I kind of wish I was still that shaky little coward from five years ago,” she muttered, shoulders slumped disconsolately. “My life would be so much easier. I’d only have to worry about the best times it would be to sneak out and eat something without having to interact with a single person. Those were the days.”

The petulant tone of her voice pulled a bewildered but endeared laugh out of Dorothea, and they returned to work in companionable silence.

* * *

The announcement came sooner rather than later, surprising no one: Imperial forces were moving towards the monastery and relocation was no longer an option, not after all they’d done to resettle and turn it into a decently functional base of operations. They would have to defend against the vanguard or perish in the attempt. 

The attempt, Bernadetta thought now, with grim admiration, was pretty valiant on both sides. The Knights of Seiros were fierce, with the remaining faculty proving their strength (she could have sworn she had heard Manuela bellowing a challenge to the Black Knight himself, though thankfully he had yet to make an appearance). The Blue Lions were also holding their own; Ingrid’s pegasus was a blur of silvery steel and lightning-fast hoof strikes and Felix was slicing through enemies with the ease one would cut a hunk of bread from the whole loaf.

Ashe’s archery had also become more confidently brutal, his arrows no longer seeking non-fatal spots but areas guaranteed to drop the enemy on the spot. Bernadetta could hear them as they rushed past her harmlessly, lodging themselves into unprotected throats or the outstretched wings of a pegasus.

A part of her was sickened to think that it was somewhat of a relief-- that none of the soldiers attacking them, downed by her own arrows, had Petra’s face or Ferdinand’s strangely luxurious hair or Linhardt’s drowsy mien. They were all strangers who wanted her dead, and who wanted that _passionately._ And unlike the Professor, who was calmly slicing them down left and right, and Dimitri, who might as well have been a spike-covered wall for how effective attacking _him_ was, Bernadetta was not that amazingly competent. It was all she could do just to keep her head on her shoulders and her hand on her bow and--

Only one of those things was still true in the next moment.

It had been next to impossible to hear Gilbert’s shouted order from where she was fighting, but Bernadetta understood the roar of flames and the panicked screams of the Imperial soldiers well enough, to say nothing of the overwhelming heat and smoke that buffeted her seconds later.

With his path in several directions blocked by fire and the one forward only featuring a coughing archer, the paladin she’d been facing kicked his frightened horse into a run to slam his steed into her. Bernadetta couldn’t dodge at this range, only brace herself for the collision and pivot to avoid taking it head-on; it still knocked her back, the bow flying out of her grip as she doubled over and collapsed onto one knee with a rattled wheeze.

Her bow lay out of her reach, the paladin leveling his lance at her as his horse nervously pranced back into position.

Then-- 

She could no longer see the horse and its rider. All she could see before her was a dark and towering shape that coalesced into the unexpected figure of the prince. Before anyone could say a word or even physically respond, he lashed out with a heavy spear Bernadetta could have never dreamed of wielding so easily. From the crunch of bone and shattering armor, it had flawlessly met its mark-- and sure enough, when he stepped aside, glaring over his shoulder at her, the paladin lay crumpled on the ground and the horse looked about as stupefied as _she_ felt… right before it took off with a panicked whinny.

Bernadetta couldn’t blame it. Hopefully horses weren’t prone to lingering nightmares.

“If you require supervision on the battlefield, then leave it.” Dimitri didn’t give her a second glance, even as Bernadetta carefully pushed herself up. The glow from the flames did nothing to soften the severity of his expression, even with his face largely turned away. “I have no use for defective tools.”

The words felt like venomous stingers, seeping into a raw wound. Much to her horror, Bernadetta felt her eyes beginning to water, like an age-old and instinctive defense mechanism that had never really solved much of anything.

And it wouldn’t help matters now, so she swallowed it down as best she could and went to retrieve her bow. Then, almost unconsciously, she stepped closer to the downed soldier. Upon close inspection, the lance he clutched was still in very good condition. Nothing was chipped or splintered, and if she was to be accosted at close range again…

The prince said nothing as she straightened, bringing the lance with her. But when she tentatively stepped past him on trembling legs, knees inclined to turn inwards, he spoke. 

“Remember your stance.”

It was abrupt, the nostalgia that accompanied the order-- the reminder? Suddenly it was as though she could feel the grittiness of the sand beneath her shoes, the reverberation of one wood lance clashing with another, and Dimitri once again patiently reminding her to widen her stance and lower her center of balance so that she wouldn’t be so easily toppled.

Was that…?

But Dimitri was already blowing past her, fur cloak swept over his shoulders, and Bernadetta stood there longer than she should have until the order to pursue the fleeing forces came and she readjusted her grip on the lance and broke into a jog to comply.

* * *

It had been some time since she’d gotten unhappily sick (not that feeling queasy had ever inspired feelings of positivity unless she thought it would get her out of unwanted interaction).

But with the smell of charred human and horse flesh so appallingly pungent, to say nothing of the words Dimitri had taunted - threatened? _Promised?_ \- the general with before the Professor had swiftly cut him down in an act of mercy… 

It couldn’t be helped, Bernadetta reasoned bleakly. Dimitri had always been eloquent, it was just that now his ability was being used for more concerning matters. Like laying out possible methods of torture in gruesome detail, and…

Her stomach lurched in clear protest and she heaved again.

“Whoa, there. I know it’s been a while since you’ve been back in the thick of it, but you’re really going at it!”

For as amused as Sylvain sounded as he pressed his palm to her back (and oh how those memories ached _now_), his voice softened in the next few seconds, growing lower. “You all right? We’re all still trying to figure out our bearings and how to handle Dimitri, but that doesn’t mean we’re always prepared for how he’ll choose to act or what he’ll say. He’s… changed a lot.”

He’d also been accused of murder and tortured himself, to say nothing of his fraying sensibility before Edelgard had led an invasion. Bernadetta couldn’t begin to imagine what Dimitri had been through, but she breathed unsteadily through her nose and wiped at her mouth with her sleeve.

“Even so… I don’t think that’s a good reason to look away.”

Especially now. Dimitri aside, that had been Caspar’s uncle, and even Caspar couldn’t fend off the horrors of battle with an unencumbered grin forever.

Sylvain’s hand stayed where it was for another minute, then slid up-- so he could drop his palm on the top of her head.

“Look at you. Spoken just like one of your heroines, Lady Author.”

“Please stop,” Bernadetta begged, and Sylvain chuckled but removed his hand. “We both know I’m not brave or strong or anything like a heroine.”

“You’d just argue with me if I said anything to the contrary,” Sylvain said lightly, pulling her up by the elbow. “And you just lost half your stamina to the ground, so we’ll avoid that. Let me just say, however… maybe it’s a _good_ thing that you’re so unconventional. That really might be just the thing our prince needs.”

She couldn’t help but doubt that but, as she allowed Sylvain to lead her over to the medical tents to at least get some water, Bernadetta closed her eyes.

_Breathe, Bernie._

If it meant keeping her promise, then if nothing else, she could try to be as useful a tool as she could.

This time, she would not fail her friend. No matter the twisted kind of path he forged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Up next: Ashe has a bad time, the former Black Eagles have a bad time, Dimitri is always having a bad time, etc. Bernadetta tries her best.
> 
> Fair warning, it will probably be substantially larger because it will be covering a good amount of the timeskip chapters with some more fleshing out. Please be patient with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking around and reading!! This will definitely be a slowburn going throughout the monastery life and the events of canon, and while I have a few ideas already, if you're intrigued by this premise, I'd also happily take suggestions! Other minor pairings will happen, I'm just not sure what they'll be yet. Anyway, if you like, please let me know! I'll have a few more pieces in the works, like a Seteth/Manuela piece for a friend and Hilda/Caspar so you'll probably see more of me soon.
> 
> (I'm sorry.)


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